Seduced by doctrine, the virtue of experience, those
with confidence. After a while—it all sounds strange—so apophatic. Mind
galleries, filled spirits, a different level, most dismiss newness of sound,
newness of songbirds, sour, alone, a smaller universe. Shrapnel gates, fevered,
aching Christ. Full. Filled. It’s nauseating. Many afraid of intestines,
performing arts, always inside the margins. Such teleology, sore metaphysics,
if not for the foundation! Love is a sculptress, a dream, a little surreal. We dismissed
it. Humans! A soul made excellent. By sagebrush, by interruption, with life, to
become numb, to fight misanthropy, to struggle with adoring some creature. Paradox.
Structure. I was a perfect specimen. Upon a gumdrop, aside a gallica, breaking
ground—trying to laugh with sincerity. Such a deficit. So certain. To learn he
lost years.
