Easygoing to forget, if possible, a
running from his self—slipping into dynasty, a wave of earnest sky, seeming
with wealth; to imagine her proud, indeed, ecstatic, so great a complicated
Dove; more music in automated complexity, oil spills, water made bubbly, and
adoring her was made difficult. Playing violin, worthy of contempt, raving over
love; backwater woods, lilies upon clouds, nebulous vows—to have serenity one
exchange, to watch and wrestle, with life, time, and habits. Easygoing to
remember, if impossible, a running to herself—tripping into reality, a grave of
earnest earth, treasured with poverty; so caged and cagey, so incautious, each Love
is a miracle—to have eternity, to say so little, with a story most do not
inhale … like art in its era, to have little value, so desperately beautiful,
so terribly gorgeous, ahead of her time. In earnest, to believe in
sophistication, to pride a saga, a story celebrating human ideals.
