The strangeness of what’s forbidden. To crochet a unique energy. Dying in spectacles; living by invisibility. Too wise; too smart; all language is doubletalk. A sentence might belie itself—and coming out of a tried culture, the roaming, so cold, flushed with red heat. Damaged. Like most souls. Trying to erase it; Dear God, have they seen it! Bled of existence. What about it is fantasy? Nowadays souls first google each other, to determine based on what we see. In steep debates, so well critical, walking a thin line, asking for it blatantly, if to need something therapeutic. Years of battles. A unique work history. No one could quite carry it. Still, you lived it. A tear for it. A fearing of it. I meant to intrude. Similar to how you intrude. We need a little symmetry. It amazes me—to see soul one way, with others seeing self a different way. Something needs to step out, to give a damn, to live like in Spain, or further into those gordian knots. Maybe violin, Chardonay, a layer of peace for the depressed, such chemical warfare; to see a thin line, wrestling, no one can sense it, for most are consumed by battles; to need something from society, with such failing, a neat capital. I meant to see it. Sort of tender graces. So, probing; such gravitation, with a poet saying so little. Many innuendoes. A factor most impressive: one can easily accuse another person of being mental, if to walk away feeling alienated.
