More into tomorrow the tender hope is essence the
precious belief in angels; to address nonchalance, such a whisper in skies, the
thunder vibrating depression. That taboo wilderness, an ordinary friend, to
feel as she dissipates; Irish coffee, a bagel with cheese, a time in
indifference. Speaking to sadness, asking her name, fretting pain and
desolation. I was rereading the centerpiece, drinking from a vase, sipping
boring ass gin. A little more sober, to turn a fair meaning, so secluded with
it. Amazed at how it works—the fragile illusion—the thin pride, a measure in bells.
To know you could, if meant to help, or you wouldn’t, as meant to shame. So
desperate the trail—so framed by necessity—the misery becomes a soul’s charm,
his excellence. The fire as it turns, while it screams, like meaning was in a secret.
Moving into meadows, listening to songbirds, a man is his sorrow, a woman
becomes her wisdom. The fierce motion—the seventh pride—the rainbow hanging
high; a person with affection, a moon with sunshine, such luminous passion. Much
more into tomorrow, a hope in its compassion, a feeling in its hope. Depression
becomes extraordinary love, spectacular vice, deep feigned discussion.
