sitting aside reflection, scratching my instincts, naivety breaking into parts. so much a need for more love, in which, all of existence collapses into oblivion. some dear romance, our daily warfare, our pledge to soldier-hood. the archer has marked the target—our hearts are filled with arrows—love is the agony of the tearing; much a predicament, her fingers at terrors, an inveterate hatred for her calling. if by expression, as never a day without injustice, where any ploy is a viable ploy. so willing to knit, to learn shorthand, to play where the fog is gray. a bag of melting ice; existence for sale; something inside devaluing itself.
the necessity of the anguish, the acceptance of the necessity, like seminary calling softly. holiness it seems, so crowded by anxiety, something muddy was selected. can’t fathom the design, the painful contradiction, so much invested in making sense of the cycle. to have adored, something in its paradox, to hurt so much to love; the color of the violet rose—the Job-like situation, as for no greater reason. a classroom of expectations, a hard tooth lady, in so much to say—it’s professional—and nothing else. (so insistent!)
by the passions, if to wonder, how some situations come into existence; to have flown into justice, by the propelling injustice, as in love with something no one approves of; the fire and dynamite, the turning against family, as an instrument in the undoing.
so few
minutes to think. every excellence placed before us. it seems feudal.
