(Darkness is inside. Shadows of personality. Essence is
revealed.) I was hunger,
inarticulate, nesting at ignorance. Never knew how minds worked, sailing as
they do, collecting reflections. To feel normal—is a blessing, a present, until
it vanishes. Much absurdity is a deficit, little is unevenness, and none is
like unawareness. There’s angst in redundancy—social paint—incomplete art; more
sailing, frontier pioneering, to witness genius and excellence. I only know in
parts, flow and flair, to make sense of behaviors. It isn’t complicated for
scientists; it’s made difficult for the parameter—as we look in at activities.
On occasion there’s anomaly—so daring it ruins perception, with patience, we
unravel pure unevenness. If one
attaches its mind, dear essence in waves, to have become much a product of
mystery; certainty meets uncertainty.
