Here I am, an inferno in my heart

A passion made of stone,

A love made so exquisite.

Humanity is not the same, 

Yet I can not see myself inside

An envelope of development.

There be spirals of letters,

Written by an angry human being,

Who could not afford this,

Who does not have the instant to reason.

The words terms of hate buck and billow,

As the words of intamacy flow on a set path.

The land is not what it seems,

The words on my skin are not what I wanted to read,

Yet the world be filled with periods and not commas,

We continue to live-and live we shall do with your

Surprising Letters.