Impulse is always stronger and prouder than logic and people have wrote with it until they felt tired by the waves of wild wind running across the silent evenings, whistling and fading in and out of the remains of the performance and the stage of the weariness showed by the kings and the queens over weekends in the notorious world. Still the radio blazes with the honeyed music as the lights drowse and ripple surrounding elements, some sway to the gentler fall of the glowing moon and cruise to the poetry around. The balconies wet, ropes twirling around swings like a whirlwind, the play of the trues of bad age heralded by the residents documenting their existence through monuments festooned with roses embracing the grunge that rested on the railings and the trees that lined up linearly to hat the ground below them and shimmer the water that fell from spell to spell in between spells of rain. Pulling over your soul to envision sections of design and gaze and to agree that in spectator-ship, there’s no last anything, everything lasts. This may as well be the wonderfully temporary influence of the earth’s youth and its flair of assuming experience.