Of rivers fighting separating, still merging into the sea. Of chords following the hand, not the other way around that may be. Of colors calling each other, flowing mixing on just a blink of the eye. Of confessions to the beautiful crime, no matter what the try, the deny.
To the rules that might finally win, proving its all a lie. To the ideas that just wont die, no matter what the why. To the loops, to the breaks, and to the recursion that could be we. To Gee, to me, and to the ideated image that could be she.