textures for blind hours

on reperousing the most powerful strings of symbols at your chest, I have understood nothing at all.
so far. as a patient of severe deprivation within your boundless camp of conflicting temperatures and philosophies.
perhaps later my understanding be otherwise. though my vessel is notoriously weak, it cannot compromise my flights over the fire. my dreams are also the most skillful collectors of fire. sure, I speak of fires out in the open. yes, in the Open, because Fires know nothing of closures at all. I love very much when ignorance is total.
on reperousing your codes, one by one, silently, in the mist of several senses melting together a sensation of desirable encounter and metaphysical impossibility... the sweetest pages of skin burn smoothly at all libraries now, perfectly unanimous and intimate.
this Hour is not my possession. its internal springs tend increasingly to overcharge the motion that has started before dawn, unnoticed.
on reperousing such bodily central textures of yours... the total number of compossibilities rise to my highest layers of imaginings...
shall I daresay nothing but a secret? For a secret must be invented so that all geography be regenerated.
I imagine I recall the very first drums of the very first bodies