The dearest ambition is for freedom of expression. Majestic as it is; fortunate pain, crumbling miseries. I thumbed through pages glancing, and paused on perplexity. The brains are feudal against self; those islands raising warriors, beauty of the scar, exposure of the animal. In his stroke he believed again. In his recovery, he had to remember himself. I thumbed through to see what they liked, the pieces selected for publication, by tragic beauty, by flying wolves, those tarantulas in those trapdoors. I see why they picked those articles: sheer ingenuity; decent articulation; bending reality, not too much. Clarity of thought. Accuracy of insides. The great battle. I’ll drift, ingratiating skies, brains crocheted, meddlesome indexes, argumentative negotiations. Forever is a day—a wholesome pledge—a sight for someone craving—to have longed, to slow down again, to fall apart, to rebuild. We never understand until we do; and seeing it aches, to have a picture as it forms, where it flatters nothing. Needing more than a picture. Needing more than insights. Trying to believe in Intuition. That inner war, deep and dark dungeons, trying to build courage to convey ecstasy. So attached to a thought, never a full discussion, wondering where time has gone; feeling a sense of hereness, enveloped in thatness, reframing whatness. It was purposed as unsavory, same mistake in a few venues, debating in self those unlikely thoughts. An uncanny chance of banshees, an ingredient nigh immortal, a fret in a feeling alike to dying repeatedly. It means so much, in becoming so little, some are extant.
