Too much to speak to content, too great the lose of innocence. I was admiring an opponent, I was chuckling at myself, it seemed incredible to assert a lack of sensation. The explosive gut; those diamonds in sage-work. Such treasured polemic—never to undermine the reader, it’s just certain sensations, wild wars, adversaries carrying certain rules—the ghosts of the matter. It can’t always go into depth, with Love gathering facts, to adjudge a man based in his convictions. To rely on self, turning away, moving to something else—permeated in spirit. I see a day, watching cartoons, for life to come rushing in. In saying post-material, we sense souls and spirts, we sense an unselfish universe. Such need for deconstruction, at a root level, while I wonder how natural certain rudiments are; it isn’t there, it’s distracted, this is a writer’s life. In what it requires, utter honesty, in a way nearly perceptible. With pushing, one might stumble upon a gem, all others then fail in comparison. This is absence. It speaks loudly. Full fledged in, or suffering in the margins, or reversing with fierceness, these say something emphatically. It means me nothing to know. It’s just more to carry. I carry enough. And yes, to have arcane insights seems like cadence, if unaware of what one must endure.
