Many documents. More notes. The
observer is goddess. As we feel, god’s
point of view. The message in blues. Trauma
inside. Days with jazz. Another observer.
We value our positions. I was with
error, with grains, fingers moist with soil.
Webbed. A legged man. Rummaging midnight hunger. It examines
itself. It keeps a reason—with joys, turned anguish, the highs for several lows—the
courage to remain with balance. I can’t where others relax, too much history
with humans; knowing how we affect souls, how we dissipate, so close to
figuring the skies; can’t tell much in dance, at angst, laughing, it’s been a
hard day.
So near; so tolerant. It comes with time.
Not waiting, but waiting. Something hast to
occur … mediocre excellence, a
few infractions, for a human, she did
remarkable, he did decently. We wonder on notion. We wander
the sentence. We must examine mistakes. I preach to self. I disappear. Sitting closer
to mirrors. Walking away from mirrors. The world is devoid of mirrors.
