When life is growling art is begging. Time is distorted. Know by presence.
Valleys ache & writhe. By design I suppose. Mathematical hearts, wild hornets.
They determined liquor is a depressant. To suppose lowness isn’t medicinal. I find we live & respond by feelings. I thank God for the training. Streetcars are running up & down Louisiana. Kites are being crafted in India. True trespasses are by airs, winds, aside sandcastles.
On a Northern Shore, a baby was born underwater. Beauty is taking place.
Note pads are filled by ideas. Pain hurts & inverts, no deeper feeling. I have backed away. I have left myself. Something is unrelenting. It doesn’t care who suffers. It’s a line unto a thread unto physicality, near invisibility. I can’t shake it. Too many years with it. It seems uncanny, while uncouth. Something, a link in the universe, it will find you, it will haunt you, without a remedy. You will become resentful. You will have nothing for that person. And she will appear. Of course, she has no idea of this plaguing, it would be strange to hear, with a true warrior enduring his lot. At moments, clarity is specific. Nothing is tied to a stream. Reality is right there. Just plain wrong. By emotion to soar across a continent, to arise in Africa, to sail passed Portugal to become a member of one’s thoughts. She will pass gently into darkness, & never know one was pining through miseries. I imagine others are gifted, to peruse feelings, to articulate pains; beauty of suffrage, memes inside, fretting you, knowing you have life, rugs dirty if I present self. I suppose quixotic delusions, if I give in, wondering why God is playing this piano. Why death is essential? To happen upon literature, unaware of specifics, just feeling God’s pricking. Just wanted complete detachment.
