Can’t say much. The party is lethal. One remains
unendorsed. It never seemed so
backwards, forward thinking, listless, taciturn, and latent. I’m not as I thought; nothing
major; it often happens—one sees a reflection in its
wilderness: drugs don’t help; lying isn’t permitted; no one is deceived, nor
listening to makeshift reality. I could
meet a
dream. It seems possible. Most often in three
parts. We side with appeal; the dense
dance; another would take a shot. So underrated.
We hate it. Most are sober, more are
raiding cabinets.
Can’t say much. Parts are true. No one cares for accuracy. Maybe a
few. The files convey, transmit,
vocalize those truths. What if I pulled
the records?
What horrible things would they reveal? The waltz you
tiptoe, the people in disgust, the illness, sickness, the bile and vile permanence.
So charged to keep peace. People hate
you. I have a
few disgruntle; one more so. I have been the vinegar and honey and now the
silence is eating skies. Another would drag a cigarette, grab a pen, do a
ritual, and get
at it. Another
is skilled. Mother would be intrigued. She would apologize and ask for the
formula, and become the greatest disciple.
I gave what was breathing in me; too
much was dead in me; no one noticed much, until the
upheaval, the oozing out. Bring the
diaries, shatter the illusion, open the records. They tell the tales of the
forgotten and
wide awakened. The same exact formula with over fifty people.
The same burden. To tell such a tale. To have influenced with lucre. Most are
disgusted. Many became proverbs.
