I figure her rage is top
heavy—and her understanding is running by the sylvan … to know it couldn’t be
personal, for he never knew reality, despite, those flames and furies and fires—those
indiscretions in him, his baggage, his misery, his anger. As a doctor, it comes to ache, to gather
figs, to nurture prunes. Not necessarily going for excellence of style, rules
and such; more concentrated on message, art of design, and word selection. It will pass over the tents, those with
posts covered, it will pass over the tents. It bothers because it aches all parties
concerned. It was foolish. It was with unspoken grief. (I have had a problem with rotating
arguments.) I never believed honesty would flow; I never tried to see: it’s
infection, vice, death, me! Let it run its course. But I am dearly sorry for
the pain I have invoked. It was impetuous. It was sightless. It was quick, and
thus, wrong. Anything more might seem deceptive.
