Did the wild pink blooms mean more when I searched for nothing really with shapes of exhilaration. Weighed down by stillness didn’t document the turn of road bearing something more than just direction beside which the tree stood each October dressed in pink. I don’t know but I was sure I wasn’t alone. One good thought to keep going through the tunnels of loneliness. After years, the remembrance came in this rainy evening with no particular representation of the philosophy of life. Somehow the gestures of the pink blooms paraphrase for the purpose of enchantment. I am often not in terms of feeling in between the triangle of identity, vision and matter of the thing that can encapsulate but only in the dreams I forget. How they bring no change in my perspective. Amazingly the pink blooms don’t care for this ugly foible. A pink light radiates whatever infinitely dark this body keeps in hiding.