No need to contend with you. You are art, trespass,
and light. To have suffocated—each step, looking down insanity; like livid at
first glance, like awakening and alert, like giving you what kills society; a
bad adventure, another selected the symphony, to realize sound is often
unsound. Hiding my life, instead of buying a new computer, art is too short,
and life is too intense. Shall I dance, or lose life, or sing a capella? Miles
into psychiatry—to hate a soul, for he sees, too darn examined—fleeing into
fields, galloping and in distress. Much is serious, when three are wide awake,
when one forecasts your next move. (If a man trespasses, and is punished,
should he feel guilty forever, Is it healthy?) Indeed, a clear conscience will
feel pained, deep anguish, despite, repercussions. Much a conflict. Much a
debate. Where art is suffering. No need to contend with you. I will purchase a
new computer. Not before it is exhausted. The anguish of the act, the penalty
of the rose, it builds into character—while most are searching for suffering.
In essence, much is what it has become, with most saying, “It isn’t enough.”
