we’re art in bottles. surrounded as
we are. learning to observe. the ship sailed out, carrying cargo, we might have
repackaged old traumas. so much familiarity. so close the reality. to imagine
two souls have something unique. the wrath of reality. a soul needing his
utopia, mad at another, for not fulfilling a perception—it sounds absurd. i
would desire what can’t be given, therefore, it can’t be obtained. it just
glimmers, like a glint, it never settles into concrete reality. a man will
adore, worship, break a bond in its excellence—to conceive of no greater
reality. the love two share, looking for perfection, gambling on a lucky ten.
the odds are ridiculous. the soul winning is savage. the mind is fixated on one
element—her very soul; as spirits of insanity, so threshed, so winnowed,
realizing eternity in error. most courageous bars, to unbar sanity, so near it feels
terrific; the merriment, the status of the wise souls, with people watching,
making wisdom, feigning indifference; so much attention, one must be gorgeous,
instead of the things people assert. the fury of the battles. the tension in
the waves. a most passionate creature, trying to outwit perception. so simple
to move forward, with debris lingering, as it must be hard to ignore the
undertow. many fretted emotions, turning sensations, musing upon another to outdo
the norm. many souls with excellence. many more with errors. a soul into a
softer exhaustion.
