Is it words or content or both? One could mourn disposition, put it on flesh, wrapped in pigmentation. One could blame genetics, trying to giggle, knowing in part, it is tragic. Over a gallon of water, flushed burgundy, hacking up souls, living, it would presume. Over a billion pieces, trying to form a puzzle, lost for guidance, like an orphan surrendered to desert life. If loving, he might make it. If taken by anger, he might perish. No complete answer has been given for each cause. And adoring seems painful. We enter with hopes. We dance in skies. We chance with wolves. Things point to futility, an otiose reality, plus, steep redundancy, except for nuances—a last cigarette, a first sip, a long life at it. A month to history, a sober month, a reflective season, parts seeming to show fruition; or shoebill mentalities, hyena instincts, yelling at scholars. Nothing seems to mean more than depth of intimacy, by an existential—moving into motion, at moments wallowing in pains, if it meant what it should. One will never feel an extent of it, pledged as analytical, notwithstanding, undergoing sadness. Like a big ass monopoly game, each little house filled with obstacles, each square potentially haunted. And realizing demystification has made for divisions; to need ideals, to need holiness, if to adore a little.
