It was nice, I think. It was a glitch, I believe. We seem
similar, carrying that monster. I raved over your prose. I was eager, I suppose.
I never said a word. I acted indifferent. I could’ve given more soul—I wasn’t
aware, I wasn’t prepared, I was drifting. It wasn’t you. It was the dynamic. So
much to feel one wave, an energy, overpowering, to elope upon an ideal. Another
is goddess, another is mythic, another is Catholic, another is yogic. I can’t
lie, I haven’t a clue, I muse alleys, I turn into valleys, I forget to laugh it
off. I wander into you, perusing honey, knowing a part is contentious. I desire
to know something, how is it, are there differences, are all humans one color? I
notice a grave essence—to mingle, to adore, to release—most magical mystics,
suffused, dripping effusion, trying to escape, for rank, for stature, to marry
for power—the hope of the novice, the elbows of the giants. I was judged. It was
without favor. The high chairs!
