First-thoughts, they have no shelf life. They seem
fully nourished out of nothing. They share only faintest sips with memory. These
first thoughts are cubes that flash. They
face their reflective moment in the sun with births so sudden in their
absolute. Each thought’s death is so final. It is as if to fill emotion with
deep-cave air towards full sail, then
void of gust or gale. And again, as if by grace a next first thought, freshly
full blown into first-admittance’s face.
It appears as if swallowed whole before even inhaled. Yet another first thought
of first thoughts, imminent but undetected, looming but veiled from now. The
next first thought, at least a breath away . . .
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