Sails are for seas, numen sights, an ancient albatross; about the neck, carrying memories, sudden into sullen holiness. To a distant thought, intense desperation, bleeding culture—by character of its injustice. It was anxiety identifying—hearing heritage, the backboard always facing horrors. The mathematics of being in Passion, the legacy of tragedy, to feel what drifts, what goes its way, what returns, what dies, and what lives. Ever a game, rare into a soul, to have a need to control. So personal to ask: but are souls with joy? Sails are for seas, numen sights, an ancient albatross; a man was a poet, he became intimate with dying, he favored using, he sung an extensive song—blue atmosphere, a dear friend, a rift, sails are made for seas. Why must is be resistant? So many unvetted, sour candy, dismissing all things; a woman was a teacher, fraught by existence, most intimate with her existential; another was into writing, into feeling as unfelt, seizing and seething, most impaired, agonizing over a slippery slope; to have overseen clouds, to have channeled ghosts, torn between intentions, to have found peace, some grand piano, affixed to chi.
