The Detective Is a Mirror

 

knowledge makes unclarity. it shrinks compartments. it makes for a world of questions, usually, easy inquiries, with easier answers. (life is simple for most, it becomes difficult for knowledge bases, it is unique for the few.) the penalty for the question, the math of the musicology, the tacks in walls falling to floors. the sewer people, the field blatant into shattering, seven years missing, asking for her affection. i don’t know what is apparent. i don’t know why a man takes offence. i don’t know why a victim is called out of her name. the stairs are louder those days. the doors were taller those miracles. kids feel sullen. men feel wrinkled. women feel with questionable tenets, Godzilla angst, King Kong anxieties. to imagine, trying desperately, never reaching the invisibility, the arbitrary, the life for me in another’s perspective. knowledge makes unclarity, it confuses what we might find secure, it points to what is unclear.     I watch the pantomime as it becomes a ventriloquist with tides and strings inside the outer wires. The rain is on the roof, dripping into the outskirts, framed in a drop as it hangs from winds; falling into misery, framing into a curse, a person looking like dementia; coming to soul, twisting into anxiety, so much love for the picture never flickered.     the bottle was full, to start its existence, it would one day be empty—in a pit of mud, grass filled with holes, water from rain, snails and snugs, slimes making easy the oversights.      

Knowledge Makes Unclarity

 

into silence, tacit upon a dream, insolent and dangerous. i knew it was pretend, most of existence, with the core peeking, on display. so hyper-claustrophobic, running sails, fleeing into waves, presumed as insignificant; bending elements, eating fumes, weighing lobsters. like eyes and ears, listening and seeing, never tiring out, never getting the picture. a soul trying to feel deepness, it’s too low, most need the deepness healed by the surface; red eyes, swooshing brains, nails in palms, music seeming possessed. she keeps it churning, most concerned by nihilism, most dreams come from ignorance, belief, mental media, and dying a whit. another is happy, i would say something otherwise, it angers people—no one wants to be seen. we do miracles in disguise, some are so aware, life seems unfit, and daily routine is desperate for air. into silence, tacit upon a scream, unstable and stable—some in between state. doing more to learn about Asia, studying one word, “Asiatic,” as it has importance through Africa. sudden days, minds ruminating, while falling i rise, the soul appears fuller. the imbalance is addiction, finding a life somewhere, becomes needing a space somewhere—the death of the deaf, the hearing of the soul, the ears and eyes alive in shadows—surrendering to numen essence.     the lie of the skies the scripture of the fables the allegories of the human surprise.

The Awning Is a Problem

 

intimidation brings monsters soaring.

 

we met with instant friction. a tale says this is kismet. it may be in error.

 

i’ve mused gently—over rocky angst—just imagining her worth: the frail giant, the raging misprint, beauty bottled by its existential. to have notion to jot a note, if to write a poem, hiding and finding misplacement—an attraction that churns, turns to nausea, in the midst of nihilism. a grand piano. an itchy eye. at best, a clear cut, simultaneous set of opposite emotions: to like and dislike, to need and repudiate, to nourish and neglect.

 

Love is an edited manuscript. it should be ready. (many readers aren’t interested.) it’s like a steak almost right, at a five-star restaurant, when one can’t embarrass the cook. it’s like galloping on a wild stallion, loving the summer breeze, unable to find grounding, subsequently, falling. i’ve been seasoning unthawed scenarios, making havoc inside, daydreaming to a perceived response. i’ve been disgusted, distrusting illusion, padlocking sincerity inside—the inked skies, jade blue horizons, disjointed waves.

 

it seems accustomed to hitting first, and possibly mating later. fair enough!

 

i’ve had feelings erupt, kept in check, in fact, that becomes the irritation; the feelings, here, are tempered, while over yonder, they were partly untamed inside—a rushing inrush of pure delusion, where it’s life giving, and unsteady. how one yearns for fruition. it’s like new attraction, a younger version, as it becomes raw and unfiltered.  

 

adoring comes with consequence, an edge towards surrendering, and utter trust in the beloved.

 

so amazing is the reality of the above, wherewith it comes natural here, and so unbelievable elsewhere.

Disordering Order

 

chasing fevers, needing solace, aside fated glances;

to have breath in error, if to love again.

            it was passive attraction

            it never sung with pains

            in volume and anger and rain.

leafy lawns, petal moisture, earth veins.

sawing at tenets, piecing points together

most ironic we must say, gods are removed

from morals—as to behave according to

apologies.

            most gray skies, endless beliefs, sound made

            immortal.

talkative happiness, before it meant its journey, days

filled with silence.

            inside of essence, compared to church, we

            have contradiction and violence.

Brevity Made to Frustration

 

frustration! how have we addressed it? is it evolutionary? the way it conceals itself, makes for tolerance, learns to ignore itself. right in the mirror, sunbathing, moonshining. chords and syllables. life and excursions. so much left unanswered. frustration has clarity, elusiveness, and self-sacrifice; it dreams of an exit, from industry and emotion, while it computes a dozen irritations. in slow motion, mirrored to itself, with nothing but merciful listeners; seaweed aggravation, certain filters, if but to salute survival. pressure builds, the body responds, some haven’t seen it—its purple in sympathy, in its nature. how to edit frustration? how to color it? what face does it wear?     we know when we see it—this is the tale—until we don’t see it, and it’s there. we gravitate towards it, a strange element, discernment comes late at times. 

out of pits, sustained by treachery, it hurts and it becomes anger; at points, it becomes sorrow, with listening seeming irrelevant—no need for honesty, no need for chivalry, the dance isn’t for elevation—of persons, existence, weather, or grain.

pure frustration, wood-smothered ambition, if sung a song on high.     most desperate minds, bodhi pangs, waiting at the gates. 

Cults & Wilderness

 

it appears as miracles, explained with ease, caves atop mountains—most are one-sighted.

 

racy chaos. motors bleeding. oil spills.

 

blind-mate existence, to gaze into inconsistencies, smiling with capacity, rosy garlands, withering beasts, tales sold about happiness.

 

duties as humans. if it appeals to conscienceness; if it drives souls; as immortal sages, the cage by silence, becoming a vocal leviathan.

 

ostracized nuances. ravaged brains. thoughts catering to bliss.

 

to feel the moon; to enter the sun; I confess the malady!

 

 

over steaks, sautéed onions, crispy edges; namely, a soul, a good time, arguing the boundaries of Utilitarianism.

 

utensils—to wave goodness, mere sacrifice, dungeon breath and garlic.  

 

the welting soul, the wilting whiplash—as but side-effects, it felt ingenious, racing through calamity, tugged as dying more climaxes.

 

beige-brown twigs, an endless revival, as to claim a secret: Our days are spent with rekindling.

 

flickers to brains, nights to deepness, experience becoming suspicion.

 

talkative sleepiness.  wakeful adoration. praises for much the joy.

 

souls afloat, splayed by the living, more expressed as inner domains.

 

semi-conquered, the quasi-existence, playful insistence; to hold morals, to attach loyalties, to ignore the core of anxieties.

 

a shout about silence, a scream about silver, so electrocuted, so golden, chasing after emptiness.

Strange Entrées

 

I have eaten strange things since I was twelve: the memories of life—the serenity of sorrow—frog legs, kites upon winds as they carry my pride. I have eaten mourning—teal-hazel concerns—reality blends with unreality. (Shifts in brains, the eloquence of pain, soft crystals alarming systems.) Those strange things … oysters in misery sauce; just so swift it destroys; sunlight blues, those first few breaths, eating the strangeness of sounds.

 

I have eaten serenity, its melodic jazz, inconsistent lines, upon blues, into auras, jingling into cabinets—those words like confetti, drawers of expression, deeper ecstatic dungeons; as strange creatures, bronzed in trials, cooked partway, partly raw; to eat life, as rising specimens.

 

I become the stranger. I eat strange islands. I have eaten strange things. (By purpose to sing. By regret to forfeit.)

 

These strange items … stranger occurrences … to eat existence, to eat skies … much is time activity.   

Balance Is Kindness

 

rough winds blew us together.

the orientation was riddled.

times change; more the same.

couldn’t dream harder

couldn’t pray quicker

roses out of crevices, out of asphalt.

watching sunflowers, escaping into wilderness, purposed to become a friend, by means of love, never numbness, one volume for much patience.

over cautious cares, over anxious calligraphy, have we painted portraits.

a soul by its merits

a guide by her wisdom

we might work bravely

ensnared in justice

arguing against logic.

in meadows soundless.

in tetras making mistakes.

at chess, ungluing biases.

wells are flooding

the bottom is pushing out

only kindness will cause stasis.  

Better By The Bundle

 

I confess to being vulnerable—affixed to ideals—in a place of dreams, radical mirrors, rage and honesty. In so many ways

 

most are reaching for the remedy, needing to possess the remedy, needing to condition the remedy. How to examine that?

 

I became critical. I became empathetic. The opening is the entrance. So

 

I drift gently, in seeing all I’ve dreamt, so critical, to adore an image, like a picture.

 

The voyage is segued to the journey—the interior seeming hard to please. In retrospect,

 

it was nice to meet power, where debates take place, it’s more difficult than we presume.

 

So hard to fully vindicate humanity, more to overlook individuals.

 

While meandering, I search for a space—to arrive at once, to exchange souls for messages.

 

It seems unusual—dear to spirit—many affairs in the hearts. While

 

we desire to feel full—overflowing, where it becomes overwhelming. Better the latter than emptiness. Albeit,

 

many desire emptiness.

 

The madness comes with the cogitation—longing for multiple paths, trying to settle the soul. In finding you, I was forced to let go, in loving you, it was deranged, for I never knew you—the irritants, the frustration, the inner politician. Indeed, the pain of making passion with a stranger—when it could be joy and happiness—our best behavior, unless firmly embedded. Some people are made of excellence—grace—and most difficult to appease—they see life differently. Such a process—to utter—with permission, those three little words. Upon sunlight, furious to have loved, captured by an uneasy need—as to possess—like full on security, to have never denied life its fruit—only to fall asleep, regretting the miracle.     If to have cherished, like every element is perfect, some needing to give more: deeper intellect, soul of my song, more emphases on passion. By such humility—if to understand dynamics, to know—the lunacy for others—in both spirits. Him to glory in beauty. Her into glory in sensation; as driven most dearly, no cave to meditate in, no want to retreat. Or most balanced, exposed to ecstasy, desiring its essence, pleased to have made fire with an opulent and addictive confidant. 

By Grace & Mirror

 

she was irked over prose—the caption of other women, i mentioned her lovers. like some mocking confession, like some impossible dream, to hear it is baffling. such decision to drift into time. such privilege to deny facts—such grace when others hear life. it must be wilderness, woodland areas, the mathematics we fail to compute. i believe we want too much, pushing for excellence, forgetting humans are unsatisfied. such gray skies. a sunny day. most will love during grace, during luxury, during miracles. to have come to combat, unprepared for earth, snails teaching mechanics; the building of a legacy, spaces unheard, algorithms unmatched. soft silent uneasiness, swarming inside, to imagine ancient activities.     i imagine a napkin floating in the winds—by circular upheaval, by distance and closeness. like patience perfects its entrée. like arms reaching forever. like so exposed, no one can get nourishment. fleeing into twilight, a sprite spirit, allergic to what we call normal.

i have interrogated self, in honor of a stranger, in dreams, we sit with care. lost in confusion, enduring my tragedy, wondering if others will show grace.

Realistic Pendulum

 

if Love shows indecision, it’s a part that loves me; if Love is absolute against me, i will know in reception. hearts are abandoned to love. they shower in affection—made content is relaxation. souls have personas. spirits are indignant. minds are indecisive. brains forge bridges.     i confess to loving in some capacity. i deny the denial, getting lost in principalities, i return to losing myself. so affixed. the purpose is the phenomenon. the motive is immortality. the job is either done, or never complete. so close to nihilism. the agony is the river. so anti-nihilism, barely holding form, trying to refute existentialism: a hard feat!

so many ideals, nemesias in bloom, casual frustration—the tower has fallen, we seek unison, the skies have denied human endeavor.

when Love is beautiful, i am ugly, if to pinpoint the irresistibility.

either mother’s rage, or father’s infidelity, or forgiveness becoming religious in tone. the tinkering of the flame, as it flickers, with anguish being in the love.     by ravishing spirit, body became susceptible, where logic is unrelenting. 

Unrealistic Pendulum

 

I was a nihilist before I met your eyes. They exhibit balance, caution, stability; so much a train, so much wreckage, filled with sentimentality. You haven’t forfeited the flowers, the moon, the stars—with struggle at your brow. I salute you.

 

The sun fell inside. Anxiety is sin. With faith rising again.

 

Winded & exhausted, you run the marathon; sunrise is so close, pain is segued, closeness is bodily affectation.

 

I don’t mean to seduce you. You have obligations. I only speak as it has moved the poet, yet, I realize, kindness is addictive.

 

What would it look like—desire made into glory, mercy for ravished, affected for ruined—holding to ideals? These become reasons!

 

So furious. So temporal. In love with two forces—trying to worship two masters. The agony of the scents, pure frustration, so abashed, so naked—as the most appealing thus far.

 

The poet is sick, suffering from illusions, predicted to lose all senses.

 

It’s surefire religious, such gray lights, rich phenomenon—if closeness happened, it would become discomfort … trying to get passed minutia, red tape, symbols and graphs; the hype dies quickly, weather is only so interesting, the skies are fighting happiness, opting for deep contagion. Sharp corners. Acute blues. Moods showing indecision.

The Go-Getters

 

cooking gumbo, five miles outside the horizon, the gut granted, the delicious cornbread, looking like diamonds, Love came with interests.

 

the eyes water. i feel you. like pain is beautiful.

 

speaking in tongues, the last climax, got ghosted, fell apart at the fences.

 

so much to prove. so little to exude. eating sap, sympathy, and smelling like silver—the bullet, the fumes, granny saw vampires.

 

much to a trend, much more triumphant, gripping daisies, wide awake, falling into a casket.

 

Love a bad as problem. we live like mongrels, and mongooses, as separated from a cobra—the big blue skies, it sounds too robotic.

 

how he caught that case? how he walked on that case? a man without money?

 

back to brooks. back to a necessary. it has become Jada’s stirring wheel, her helm, her ship. most are passively experiencing Will’s embarrassment.

 

get it out the mud. sweep the roof. heads or tails, much priority on the heaven womb. never felt like that, so many sharks, like sex might cause losing—so detached from her body.  

 

too dangerous, made into contradiction, she fell in love; the walls breaking, the Berlin pain, a go-getter.

A Feeling Causes Eternal Chasing

 

so involved with this mirror, so enthralled by spirit, in your eyes, the culture grieves, the satisfaction is in making passion.

 

we might hate each other, respecting elements, disagreeing, unto a particular emotion; filmed inside, running by gates

 

if to find perfect acrimony.

 

held you in soul, gauged you in mind, looking at a naked impression, so greater the essence of the machine.

 

cloth soaked in innocence, so much more in you, before so coarse as a feeling falling into a lagoon—

 

the platypus screaming, touched by purity, seared in existence, born to adore, in caring for you, it has been inescapable.

 

so low in a given second, so indecent, to rise so high on a sudden pulse—those eyes, those feelings, they aid in reading life.

 

trying to be excellence, making the arduous trail, so behind our backs, to have given love to a force in its entity.

 

it comes to a space, either civilized or uncouth, it can’t be both; to need life in me, to desire pain with glory

 

meshing into a pretzel.

 

if the feeling passes—thinking harder—you might be the end result—the action on paper, much exuberance, much more love.

Masked Lemons

 

I have been enabled to speak of hate.

The ball rolling away, the child chasing.

Reminds me of an unsealed fever.

 

I have hated suppression, relaxed in

lies, like twilight, distinguished by

threats, severed by exhaustion, at

inhouse chimney—sweeping home

clear, if clean.   

 

I have been absolved of happiness,

sorting through rubbish, finding

essence pierced with a dagger;

 

and flipping coins, to solve qualms,

pinpricks, fluid to paper, with need

to specify disgust; in soul, to feel

depth, anxiety inside of speculation,

the philosophy building divisions,

a reed broken, hate breathing, a

tale has been told with honor.

And her orange becomes dread, in

a field packed with numb children.

 

How have I confused hatred?

How to unfret self?

A new pair of trousers.

They only fit hatred.  

The Wellbeloved Rachel

 

a maiden since middle school

smelling like silver.

welling naturally, confined inside

with tales aside brains, pushed

by wend and ink.

 

certain solitary puddles

they stay for a time, absorbed by

earth and skies; so tender an

account, with corrals in coiling

captured, given grace, still

gangly—mid-myth, spotted

eagle, phoenix dyes.

 

upon passing a spout, a maiden

in dress, never a greater sight.

she spoke Hebrew, fair, delicate

skin, bejeweled, from ankle to

neck and nape. she drew water

spoke softly, a dream for most men.

he was swift to help, quicker to

steal a chance, negotiated for soul

and glitter. a wedding was

delayed.

 

no more by cries—the inside

penalty, a lesser in line, most different

in time; most different in mind:

mandrakes, debates, renting out

a soul, made husband of two.

 

the colors have words; most earn

the vines, iridescent talismans, sin

sweet in sensation.

It Will Not Be Neat

 

I met me at the passage in the meadows.

I met me at the gallery; mothers had children

Fathers had cameras, many felt alone.

Some gray cloud, some shadow

And Love was invincible. A superhero

A magnet, one shot is more than human.

Watching is the battle. Perceiving clearly

Is the wolf. Many pictures depict vampire

Eyes—a dance with omens, the devil in the

Quarters, my shadow, her silhouette; given

More, saffron flowers, sufferable destruction.

I met me at the passage in the meadows.

I felt anointed; sent; abandoned at the final

Moment; adrift in cells, asked to relent, if hell

Unleashed commitment. Check the data. I’ve

Been warring for clearance; rain has been huge,

Pluvial uneasiness.  

Unknowingly, One Might Pass Prayer Session

 

maybe upon a clove, those spaces, occupying essence. burnished pride, vanguard sorrow, buoyant rain. by strength in a touch, to feel viable, weathering insecurities. a soul made to repent; we find gods are nicer than humans. a longer fence, many sea creatures, we negotiate with whales. those dandelions, unto her feathers, to know the unknown places. spinning those days, rabid with exhaustion, many visions ignored; to know how it works, to know one means you incognito, to play pretend, empathizing with unsaid universe. corrals and webs. pieces of debris. a mind going through upheaval. one asking for clarity. another unable to give clarity. to sit, rock, and rub one’s knee. radical beginnings. animal lethargy. (plain and simple insistence.) souls vacillate—either acceptance, or resistance—often, both.

much pain in no direction. each is vulnerable; wanting to believe in others, with decisions to make, motives to discern.

it was pure anguish, it happens after the infraction, sound and deliberate, and trying to leave it be; (a person will feel an affront, it might linger, that soul becomes participation).

with provocation made irrelevant, a soul tiptoes the crucible.

 

wasn’t meant to absorb like others feel; in getting close, I make witness, in dealing with a phoenix, I sense mutuality.

too difficult—the top tier gem—souls are spoiled, we like it, and we loathe it. 

in a sandbox sits a sandcastle. many dreams appear. by an art—the shoebox skies.

spirits gallop: a soul enters where the omega starts the journey; passionate miseries, two coming together in pains, each motion means eternity.

Like Parchment

 

into twilight, strangeness, as if a soul will forfeit excellence.     not a perfect specimen, far too many mistakes, but a handsome soul, a goodness there, a ruby made of tolerance, specialty, gentility, and pain.

the past of its future, by journey of its life, looking into us—seeing miracles, the opus of the sin, the body of the maze.

 

brushwork. the Burning Bush. so much to believe in.     jackals in soul-kind, fermenting cables, the world can’t outwit everyone.

 

a pioneer of prose and poetry, many dwelled in intolerance, the fight for literature.

 

we juxtapose life’s events. we find manufactories. we saw it with the Panthers. we don’t see much with other groups.

 

to interweave the facts, to unsee the unsaid, with problems originating with the prey.     a prayer for the lonely. in essence, it shall shift. then spirit seems too grandiose. in a humble trumpet, a humbler triumph, with strange lives crossing the pearly gates.

 

iconic value, perpendicular arts, geometry lives with socialites.     so much is embellished. whom paints the story? Socrates is pivotal, the character and the essence.

 

Pluto is a man of words. wondering if persecution came, and it did!

 

an echo in heart. a deeper belief. the oxymoronic and opalescent personality.

 

so latent. a person of interests. washed in spirit, bathed in water, set to motion in time.  

Closure Remains Aloof

 

if I were a soul unbroken, what in names, does that feel like? spliced asunder, loving spirit seen, like losing was glorious—the pain, the fury, the glue—if to get it back, that old soul, so much discomfort! the same 2 stepping, an English omen, too much emphases on hips and ass; ruined as it stands, tugging a sacrilegious ear, so irreverent, speaking on dice, affairs, the glory of the deception—riding, galloping, horseback, finally arrived with a soulless figure. such a lie—more soul than skies—a video camera of every wound—the woundless, the absent, they can’t fathom—the banks the feelings the needs for life: mania, and sin. look at me: air-dancing, shadow boxing, anything to forget and play normal. much a decent soul, much an ethic spirit, her kids adore her, the rest wrest to know her; so simplistic in the force, so battled in the error, even superheroes become depressed—they show emotion, in a motionless atmosphere, we learn to associate with likeness and soul, so much raw ass gravel. too damn bad—the sorrow is existence, going for pain that night, understood the loneliness, the fever, too close for comfort, too far away, the need for contradiction, and wrath, so cozy, such a cozen person. too hurt to bat an eye, too proud to feel privileged, too gray to receive closure.  

The Voices We Meet: Just Keep It Forward

 

he heard his psychs. he plead for meaning. too much to overstep. quite dangerous, never another upper, rather be sad with you. the last meeting, tripping my pain, saw it, shook it, it comes back to eyes. grief-poetry, twins, one passed away, the days ache, the face is food, the love is unsteady. archetypes and shadows, legends and diamonds, only Spirit knew the investment. coming out of the Jim Jones’, mother tried to exercise music, a lady tricked her destination. seated by an animal, trying to appease an appetite, needing to become an animal. many loyalties, to lose loyalties, at some terrific tragedy; feeling out of place, feeling unkempt, needing to redeem something within. and Love is different, unrealized, making pepper out of tar. seeking purity. too far to complain. and when you love, you grant freedom. (sexual guilts, needing guilts, just paused, saw myself, dropped into a mantis.) the penguin leading by example, the ostrich giving up, the ape leading with violence. real chemistry, a need to heart another, top tier isn’t just given; so earned, ring finger, if it means destiny, despite resurrection. the last to horsepower the skies, the first to unwrite prose, while it never meant much at market.

Twilight Zone

 

i can’t inhale—not deep enough—to erase the interior; the child was an experiment, a project, fed pains, problems, and pride. like an undead soul, a reborn spirit, so alive in his sadness. too much happiness seems askew. too little sadness, and I chase her. we might say something isn’t right. the peace for one, is the hell for another, seated as we were.

 

instincts and emotions, causeless and endless, the situation isn’t simple; seemingly tactile, so intestinal, each feeling destined to chip at me—to take pieces of me—to destroy innocence.

 

the world keeps spinning. the days remain enigmatic. the beauty is exquisite.

 

sweet immortal Chastity, the collar has betrayed thee, what move is there with only one option? so cursed, such guilt, for the sin of another person.

 

each circuit i felt. each reality i’ve endured. each objection, as in space, time, and beauty, i’ve explained in self, to self, by self, and the cradle keeps moving.

 

the path has memories. they open for many. the soul might fly again.

 

some euphoria—gunning at itself, being understood comes with a price, and over yonder, no one is clear, each person wrestles a problem—no one is free. a major assertion, with a paradigm lingering, while normality is a reflection of the mirrors—the consensus table—and no one is contending the first two premises; rather, not many are equipped to contend—most count on that.

 

I saw in magazines, mothers trying it for husbands, he desires something aesthetic; the drug life, the liquor life, the limelight—over limes with gin, at dangers to survive, he might be a different person after exposure; she loves him, he’s all, in all, knowing he can’t outwit her—knowing he has a vague reflection—permitting him to feel secure in that.

 

aside a freesia, down the way from a daisy, many playing with dandelions.

 

tick tock, and dot to dot, the river has become lurid, too many colors, too many metaphors; the town is unready, the pews are filled with achievers, nevertheless, no one is ready.

 

the dauting task, for the dauntless soul: she asked for a first-person essay, i gave something academic. ghouls and goblins, feelings and emotions, while intelligence varies; awakened and something like destiny, would a soul be rejected? gates and walls, New Kingdoms, and what they consist of; Tai Chi, Taekwondo and something too human to ignore. so much a foxy creature, too refined for it to be true, too shapely to be ignored, although, men desire certain features.

 

nourish the fable. listen to the insanity, those old lines were untrained. one watching, might suggest, the years have been good to his atmosphere.

 

the sun fell asleep—65 days of darkness, it affects the insides. many will not make it.