I was sold a dream, immortality in the balance, to
believe in you, to dance in your culture, so much an issue, so deep a loss,
eating life, birds at his shoulders, songs in his waves. Immune to it, some
scream, abandoned to it, a million-man march. To see a seed having joys, to
feel obligated, as to dispel the child’s faith. Giving him nothing, just
robbing him, to wonder why he becomes an atheist. And Love was flying, waltzing,
traipsing immortality. What was left—bags of profanity, secular musicians? It will
outlast itself; it will die in itself; it will mean more thrown away from
itself. Slow insistence, a man should go mad, when blind to motives—and Art
feels justified—just because! So unreal, such a myth, and a life was dedicated to
the uneasiness, that culture, this person, the study of itself, in reflection
to the genius. Thirsty! Put into a style. An old attic inside, a conundrum
inside, Art knows her name. Swift at it. Lost in it. Nothing means more in it.
So noetic, a zoetic life, couldn’t fathom, had to try, asked a question, to
imagine what it looks like: disregard, to sense beauty, asking for a passage,
ignoring its liberty, cleaving to its escape. “He says nothing!”
