the lady is schizophrenic — highs too illusional — such rich discomposure. she’s alone the rooms are velvety pure elastic the walls are swimming; pain is soiree jazz is pitiful onlookers are passive. the genre is delusional those faculties are unreliable cartoons seem like reality. webs and sketches, dreams wide awake windows peeking in; so curt such exactitude everything is literal.
mockingbirds are weary such a long voyage to hear energy.
I met her early in science. I was aware of roadblocks. the map was gray or pastel or jasper. lions entered by caves, such raw shrills such southern screams.
we drift to another, a woman diagnosed at fifty, she became sober to learn she was bipolar. her countenance died it was heartrending, her moments before retiring.
I might feel gifted where others are in contention while deeper pits show suffering. by tempest by gamut if but to reach clarity. the pith of the jaguar the sodden bone while misery is someone’s comfort zone. our construed compassion our dependent unisons or tragic opus — those prying funerals those tiny deaths if but to see what others are living through!
pangs so social. stereotypes so natural. black art condemned for its memories. a signet on normality a consensus complementing its own, a kid misdiagnosed.
both passed over. both are still speaking. joy is up for debates.
