Excuse the cliché, but it’s
much bigger than us: the publications, the notoriety, the comradery. I was in a
zone, palming spirit, made to realize my hauntings, taunting(s), houses made of
glass or straw, the fury of the miscalculated; only as good as officials make
me, only as beautiful as we exclaim; like a silver back, watching, listening
inside, it amazes what’s taking place in there. Something resists itself … its
nature is grim … it feels like something unrealistic. I’ll employ the words,
but I’m not big on ghosts and goblins outside of metaphors. It will make us stronger. You will
drift into the horizon. I will lay claim to sanity. Else, we each have many mental
components to address. I’ve been
sawing marshweed—dazing off, asking my mind its number one concern. I’ll be curt: I don’t want the entanglement.
I would prefer make right,
endure to liking, and vanish into the daymare, which is life. My mind paints a mean creature, so
much personal insights, the soul is roaming its guilt. Such psithurism, trees and the like,
leaves and pain, blowing in the winds. I was fast asleep—it was life—I never
asked for what you carry—please forgive the selfish waves.
