it feels unstable those sects such
absolute authority. by unflinching arrogance where we abdicate our souls so
forced into exile. maybe a conference. maybe elevation. or maybe some higher
ambitions. but Love is a portrait with joking in her design where most gorgeous
women are illegal aliens. to fret over politeness, or to feel butterflies, Are
these not our existence? such scientists as evolving in our quarters, while we
battle about what to say! I saw a woman where I angelized her person, so, I immediately
left her presence. so much to need a feeling to want to worship to exhaust
merits; such a pedestal, while belonging to flowers, if surrounded by death,
ignorance, with ambition or alienated rites. (I look at Kerry or Johansson I disappear
gently but I can’t understand it.) so I run I run through rooms I come to a
door I kick frantically I feel the sacrifice I reappear as someone in deeper
darker anguish. I bite nails, a stomach is hopping, I almost upchuck breakfast
coffee. I come to an intrusive place, for these two are in those chambers—it’s
most obvious! but here into a scream to know eyes would not die such
consciousness a millennium afar; but a numb one. but a decent one. or so bogged
into soil it feels good to receive water. an unplanted plant. a tree’s sudden
birthday. or leaves falling looking forward to resurrection. as sensitive,
powerful, even cutthroat entities—where a man cringes, losing his faculties,
too enlove to act normal.
