Goglie Sr.

Hey, Good day! Life is beautiful. It is so placid and serene. At times of stillness, something inside is filling up and flowing with superabundance, like a butterfly’s serious quest on a leaf blade: only stillness. When a hand is stretched trying to arrest it, there it goes flying and flying and flying up, fainting and painting a vacuity. Why is that stillness not persistent? What’s that nagging inside in spite of a contented life?