Soil made its garden. So determined, facing moods. Loquats,
peaches, rich nectar. To drift onto islands, measured against time, many more
to come. I was a child—rooms filled with smoke, sweat soaked flesh; it would
engulf us, it would separate us, neither confessing a vice, bone of my bone. To
abandon humanity, asking allegiance, with perception determining truisms. Sullen,
soothing instrumental—scars come to speak, traumas built upon traumas—justified,
one would imagine, any excuse is feasible … spoken into lights, fragmented,
plausible deduction … praising inside, looking as it presents itself, in the
moment, a child is born; to carry components, an opus scar, moving into
dimensions: just a series of turns, a notion closer than before, a pendulum
reality … maybe evermore, sailing ambition, emotion, stirred into nonexistence.
