To fret the lows, demanding the lows, such pure paradox. I was gentle a Saturday morning, I felt trials the miles of skies, a tender smile, to nudge a friend. So damned. So blessed. The best of haphazardness. They say a tear on Sunday, is a prayer. Each petal from a gallica, each plum from its branch, to nibble and palm the waves of seas. In ignoring it, seeing it more, to regain composure. In falling apart those sacred years was alike to rebuilding. The art as it lives, to take on life, a simple day takes on a tone. To look at a spouse, calculating the goodness, sweeping the badness, feeling a little neglected the pith seems to desire more. In spite of facts, such desperation, a cuteness to it. In giving—it wasn’t accepted, in imposing—it wasn’t appreciated—in sitting and made vigil—it’s noticed. (What is it? Forget it!) I was with sunrise, first sunshine, listening to morning ritual: a little this way, a little that way, a swift remark, off to seasons. To insist on causing an element — that isn’t what one seeks. In its opposition, it forces a lot of thinking. If to cruise Infinity—if to discolor the sands, bereft of pain, filled with joys, trying to balance, trying to break freedom; to know in loudness, to sense in silence, to imagine something being confirmed—rules and authenticity.
