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ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ𝗗𝗔𝗠𝗜𝗔𝗡 𝗘𝗜𝗧𝗛𝗘𝗥𝗦𝗢𝗡.

He was burgeoning from divine prodigal louvres, in the usual way, for wild places persuaded to him. After a heaps of hustle, at last he had emerged triumphal, And leaving tender chrysalis behind, exploring all on vermillion hued scenery. And guided by acute senses. He possessed all eyes, so each dyed maturity was identified, stroutness amplified forever, as vault where plum dawn has died. He could see ahead and behind. Those days when life was young, all the world seemed so new. Life is too complicated, too constantly changing, to be anything but what it is. And he is, by nature, too mercurial to be anything but deeply wary of the grave unnaturalness involved in any attempt to exert too much control over essentially uncontrollable forces.