With one, it’s by, and on purpose; I hope different
for a brooding star. Albeit, disarray and genius are obvious.
As fell a pomegranate—rushing into gravity—sitting,
speaking, used, and smiling. They are snakebites. Files are snakebites. They never
speak potentiality; they record growth, behavior, mistakes …
long term repercussions …
plural imageries …
damaging liaisons.
Files never speak participation, infraction,
snakebites; just memories jotted, stories sold, commiseration and phantoms;
they never speak to orientation, skewed interpretation, once alive, active,
promulgated, files become brains, insatiable glue.
With needing, it takes time to come. With training, it
seems desperate to train. With music, classics are immortal.
During
opera, lungs bleed, most are singing an aria, despite, the many in their lives;
so a capella, so close, despite the facts, feeling arrival is
impossible, made phlegmatic.
It’s
not an audition. Self becomes reliable. One is on purpose; another is used;
with stealth outwitting ethics.
