Often, a man is silent. He understands intimately, but words fail to reach. It’s an uphill trek, a sideways slithering, a need to excavate the voice. No one desires him to win. They do impossible deeds—hoping for darkness. They love the Almighty. Nevertheless, it’s been crocodiles in these regions, falsified impressions, lurking shadows, a dear catastrophe. I’ve come to find—some love is wrong. The more I look, the further I see, with tremendous doubt in the observer. (Loving the art of those skies, offering what life is, under essence, basic grief.) Like every day; and it’s me. This is what we’re going with. To earth with it. Over yonder the lights are dim, by whim and life, wandering further than one can walk. Often, more than most, a man has to understand, has to do musical math. It’s amazing what we don’t suggest—with the carcass becoming fetid. At moments a woman will believe another soul, at other points she will speak to a spade. If it were easy—everyone would be happy. I never believed in it. So, it doesn’t hurt that it's absent. And I have always lived with it, so it’s hard to take precedence. (You need someone underdeveloped, as opposed to one eye-to-eye.) The discontentment. The sheer befuddlement. In loving most need a slave. They have no place for mutual understanding.
