The air itself was music. It was not self-imposing like the train noise echoing from a distant place neither was it chipping away morning lullabies like the birds on the poles and trees. It was amidst all, and everything around it was consumed by its unapparent presence. Without most knowing, life was giving away its most prized rhythms for free. And all who thought they could hear sounds of bytes were voided in the gift of hearing.
During a dreadful storm one does care about the shouts or cries of the sea, all that matters is coming out at the brighter side of the tale. Heroic, yet a good sailor not great (because there are no great) will listen to the ascending roars of the waves and with deep insight into the ways of the water, he or she will pass through with ease. Now we all have different paths, but regardless of the set road we have a singular end point; same destination. Some require rugged tricks to pull out from the beast of the sea. But no matter your gift, wise or unwise, understanding the waves of life will help you in finding that road you desperately need to embark on, and when or if you listen, maybe your path will call out your name; Loud and strong.
For the sins of man has been fully paid.
Nothing can stop the token your thighs received when you first echoed your cries.
Rebelling against even mata, a fist of odd thoughts.
Knocking on the door of joy, craving for the taste of sea.
Morning come, money go