Becoming some different person,
organic from life, much the rain in purification; the math will make sense,
after years at studies, it will click like bells in towers. Some feeling—to churn
butter—to become elixir—the decent appeal, the descent into waters, the
purgatorial monsters; if to live, while brain-reading is far-fetched, one is
looking for cues; spiders and bugs, macaques and monkeys, the difference in the
essence, the scent in the greeting; such foreign clues, so
non-compartmentalized, so great the ambition; to love and adore, on penalty for
worship, so soft into a dilemma. Much greater the confession—so discombobulated,
the machine gun in Kelly. Dropping into lyrics, platypuses morphing into Purities,
the smile meant so much when I was a child. It has lost cache, its fur is
covered in morality, its decency is appropriate, neither for nor against love.
