The essence of a thing solidifies with action.
Inaction breaks them down in a simpering act of decay.

The pervasive forces of life, death, and other, feed into each other in a spinning mass of intention until ultimately the alchemist becomes the alchemy.

The temperatures and salts of our spirits mix evenly and the swirling subsides. But the sediment of our substance never settles. It remains suspended in the space, independent of action or reaction.

Time is of no concern. 
Not time nor fear of settling shall stir the beautiful murk of perfection. 
Each particle in it's place, it waits for another push.

What pushes you?

The End

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