Writing Exercise 4

How stupid it was for the forces to come upon me. I am not their swaying tower; I will ravage the breathing night until only the insanity angle will remain invincible. That, the first step in the reincarnation of animal wisdom, will induce an earthquake to the sickness of cranial failure. Come to me flies in the trees and birds in the flowers. An instigator of the highest-power; rise institution, rise-realize-been there to the last hour. The wolves, the wolves are all red. The night is their canvas. They are the beast's of life. Their redder love is for the insanity angle; beautiful, fire blessed, the only true spiritual of the Suffering Diana learning to dance her moonlight religion. Bare as the wind and wise as the quiet earth; I am the real wild. I am guided by red. Hunger for the right dream my wolves. The night will pass and pale intention to incident like sunlight against spider web.
There is nothing if not bleeding honesty that the night isn't real, but helixes into the static of day and then the witch of dreams will know her moonlight.
Necessity, necessity. The only god that can help me.
In the wake of a life undone by a receding storm there are the undeniable occurrences not of the supernatural horror or of chemical manipulation, but of a natural happen-stance that instigates in the remarkable rhythm of fiction and I hear it.
How to describe a girl of a touched disposition and a women that seldom wakes. She knows her sisters in falling glory, but do you know them by their broken minds and sunset eyes? Swaying under cloud torn skies, breathing prophecies, heeding your discomfort like worried ghosts; they will know, more lushness besides your hollow words. In the tied existences of the pre meditated sculpture of youth they bleed and were bled and came rushing in as currents do to the shore to be swallowed up by a static tide pool. In dispensed, wooden homes their aching chaos stews and you... you went there, encroaching and shameless and met by cranial stares. What then was your purpose among those suffering Dianas that could shatter your template welded life into a thousand stars likened to their inner waring galaxies?
It never occurred to anyone; the necessity of breathing. She relied on her intangible vessel to see into the space of demented machines and skies that couldn't be bluer. The touch of the atoms only reach her from the cosmic umbilical that wraps around stars and tears her between the color and grey and with each time she wakes she is born again under skies not as blue. That morning the time was when the light was an uncertain white from the slanted sun and the air was spun into a deadening circle from the ceiling fan. Her soul fell into her body and her body was in the starchy grasp of a comforter. Her eyes met the room under a resentful squint, so reluctant to resurrect a most boring existence. Sleep was heavy in her veins, but if she must wake she had to be in the winds and under the sun. Once outside she made her way to a wooden shower that hydrated a flourishing thicket of wild flowers, bushes, and vines. They engulfed the door. She wiggled out of her loose clothing and ducked under the nozzle until the water became lukewarm. The atmosphere had already become balmy and laced with a mild breeze that wound it's way through the raised shower door, carrying the songs of insects and birds. Here, she could feel truly one with the world she looked down upon.