How I Feel: A Story Based on a Perspective of the Author of This Post, and Perhaps What he Thinks About Paris,

namely Phillip, who will describe it in one sentence, because one is with and without, it is all and it is nothing, and can last for as long as the scale calibrated to the nth degree will accomodate, not that it will serve a purpose once the reader, in shock, looses their train of thought, but then with that loses their shock, and notices the spelling error, but notices not the feelings of this author, who quite frankly has feelings - that is at the extent that they show themselves, but even not then- and perhaps while they wish to be concealed, the equally urge to escape, and thus catch themselves as they launch themselves: i throw my anger, catch my guilt, and throw my guilt, and find my weakness, and find every other goddamn accommodation to that weakness, and then i throw that, and find my strength, find my smile, and carry what I can on my shoulders, hold on to the hand that holds me, and then live in a sentence that is one, and when I am a sea of soft waves, I am also the wind of kind scent, and wish to show that scent - I wish to show that scent!- and when I am a fierce wind, or sometimes a quiet, gone wind, and maybe even a wind that wishes to visit Place de la Concorde, visit the obelisk that stands, aged and worn, but with a beauty so refreshing, that the wind itself cannot not sing- carry the birds, tuck in the clouds, and cuddle with its waving subjects, the fields, who long to dance on a day any- and therein notice that I am always the wind, and that I feel like the wind, and I want you to feel like the wind too, and I want to feel like the wind myself, and there I climb to tell you, this, with the meaning subject to a flow of words, rather than a track of words to tell a meaning, I tell you, are my feelings, this; thus.