Freedom through its nervousness—an internal clock, known to operate subliminally; alike to sentences and strange islands the gift was imperceptible; an audience knew and they paraded leakage the parable of beauty, an ache in paradoxes, flushed with obsessions—an author to his mind. So familiar, at 70 mph, an intimate freeway, too actual, too determined, so, one might call fey for a favor, wondering to self some type of ownership. In shifting by imperfection, knowing it isn’t enough, we see waterfalls, we admire Picasso, we even visit a temple—walking through memories, taking a glance, stepping into malaise, somber upon a blessing, chuckling with a friend. Pure resistance draws frequencies near; in desiring by essence, fragile into debates, sensing futility. It can’t all be tragic—we make magic, right? An existential glitch; seeing change in beliefs, lost souls, temperaments, genetic designs; life of my life, with much waning. Such a rebel. And so offended by politics. It can’t be all horrible, and it defies being all goodness. Freedom through its unevenness—some type of riddle, in exercising it, one loses it—an unfair exchange of vines. Most radical tangibility inside, sore metaphysical, mind shadows, glimpses, it seemed important. In racing back and forth, alike to gothic forces, to have felt inclined to utter confusions.
