No one but one knows you. So vague. Facing a fugue; enduring an effusion. I would learn to love parts, affected by wholeness, such grayish matter. The fool has spoken. To sail seven seas, nameless as a soul, back to basics to fall forever. The blood we bleed; the tortures we endure; the
overwhelming infusions—if to pronounce a wound. To love it as it dies, to seduce it as it breathes. Many memories blur. A thin, addictive line—to stumble into meaning, aside its indifference. (It amazes what souls find amusing, showing too much too quickly: “Let them
laugh.” She was included, though absent, never aware aside for a thumping gait. To walk interior. A little bit of each other. To give so much just because. Part boredom; Part fancy; imparting to offset a particular concern. (A woman is a gem, often desecrated, we fail to fathom the many
fractions. I never understood. I never will. To love, to adore, never aware of going to sleep.)) The panic of occasion, to sing softly, a stronger woman would conceal essence and perish gently. A stronger woman would seal the great chasm and kill inherence. One asks if a stronger woman
would desist on love and forfeit existence. Too much to seal the hole, too much to live exhaustion. Too much to un-sing the rivers, those whale gems. And a stronger man would never die, never fully persist. Too offensive. Too indicting. The love is what life could exist.
