The weakness is the hunger. A need to feel esoteria. Something tugging one free. (Each time I read good poetry I ask myself what in the hell am I doing?) Over unripe loquats, with sour lemons—discussing a five-year-old’s dreams. To reminisce through a quarter of a century later; to return to the inner portrait time and again. (What is the artist screaming about?) There’s grayness to it: during dry weather—to create something wet—to hydrate on emotionality. We take a sickle to skies, to unravel diamonds, the mind-earth is raining its existential. (One appeared at a crucial moment. Unconscious writing is addictive. But it’s ever conscious. In seeing the oxymoron, one is appreciative of the process. I thought I was self-conscious. I’m good and self-conscious at this point.) The weakness is the hunger. Made susceptible. The artist is weary. Most need to know with clarity—in order to explain life; in its psychology, it makes a heart cozy, warm. True bravery is facing chaotic motion, adjusting with each wave. There’s a need for esoteria. So much of life is unfree. The artist has been ignoring uneasiness. It seems appropriate to say—life leans in and becomes uncomfortable. One comes back to it. It evaporates during interaction, sudden to reappear. Some are strong. They withstand the great heirloom.
