If this pen could write by itself, I'd have retired myself from the burden of rhythmic articulation and drowned in the psychedelics of your reverie, levitating to a world devoid of matter, eroding away our maze moulded brains, filtering out the virgin soul awaiting it's first touch. Like the first breath of air gushing into a newborn's lungs.

Abandoning our half wrung hearts echoing through the vesicles of felicity, catering devotion to the delusion, may we ascend. May we ascend to a world devoid of matter. Where judgements lack parameters and thoughts breed in unison.