Such beautiful brokenness, measured by a smile. Most of living seems difficult. If to go to that place, such terrific negation. Either cry for you, or die for you, all exacted upon spirit. I sense love was a miracle, before the great aching, some atypical reigns. I discuss what art is. Through neglect, I determine what love isn’t. In making passion an aesthetic light, I reach for a hand. No one as we assert; but everyone as we neglect. Life moves if we watch it, if we participate in it, notwithstanding, it keeps moving. I can’t define love, as an essential entity—prone against itself, to wander around lakes, to render a red herring, even well-groomed etiquette and ethics, such dear chaos. We say something is wrong when a bishop is held under suspicion: instincts. Whatever it decides for souls, amidst hilarity—we come to pardon reality. Waiting for air-prints; consulting heart-arts, language under circuits, devastated ear-souls. Motion was cherished; life was remedies, quite a paradox in authors, indeterminate moons. To adore with merely a glint of light; to reimagine each gesture, framed by an eager hurting. I lost something in each chase. I lose something in writing. Wisdom has proven a cruel instinct. I was ignoring emotion, figuring it made for deficiency, disappointed one could trigger responses. I promise if one captured motivation, it would leave one shocked. Upon a human chessboard, so great its riddle. Never learned until it was later, a sort of calmness, some sort of patience. When I met you, such a prolific writer, our contempt for one another, it was in us. With others speaking their hunches, I wonder why a need for evidence had passed away.
