An audience inside a kingdom, an edifice; to have desire, in part, is to feel human … trying to escape, gripped by a crocodile, in remembering sandcastle eyes. Time has changed—in the way we borrow each other, fraught by loathing a piece of mystery—by dear affection—those principled disguises, partway dying, partway living, life seems different for many. To bend a sentence, to writhe with agony, to do it with feeling, with emotion, or detached at moments, angered at the channeling. [But] what have I to say, nothing in its stream, no portrait alike to music?
I wrestle as opposed to flowing at times. The forest is a sylvan with you. [I remember aged folks saying, “You know what you’re doing, so, I hold you accountable.”]
A dear secret. It makes little in sense. Weekends pass on by. Nights seem imperfect. Days are fraught by guessing, unless, one guesses not at all, wherefore, one carries unrelease, thus, a type of heaviness.
It means so much to accrue so little.
