In days ending in scented sheets, we see patterns. Some cause comfort. Others distress us. To adore pieces, as they make pictures, a chuckle, sarcasm, innocent deviousness. I was with intrigue, as if sickened. It meant more in its moment: it tires itself to speak of metaphysics. And mind physics is unknowable. One sees in self a place for certain beliefs, often exonerating self, permitting such to take root. Or such concrete life, realizing—it doesn’t just shut off. One might become cold on another, fretting torments, facing turmoil. (So irrelevant: “Where is your evidence? Why should I put my life on hold for this?”) You shouldn’t. A mind will hold to whatever possesses it. (Soul of a petal; sky armor; emotion armoires; fragmented assertions.) It sounds like poets have problems. Such a pink elephant in most quarters, such observant crocodiles. I see a far away mirror. It’s filled with faiths, mythologies, reflecting on itself; those iridescent agonies, trying to master meaning, arguing in self over dependability. I was right to explore depth of passion. I was with uncertainty to expect rubies, diamonds, flight and fame. It’s reflection now, certain allegators, souls outwitting self, manipulating souls, in disputing what candy has flavor. Left to create. At times, to share something collective, born of vice, never quite unveiling intuition. To smelt a sentence, to wink in advance, holping for revelation, soundness, even folly.
