An aesthetic of screams and by
damages to dream—of something grandiose. Hips swaying into spaces. Dice rolling
uncontrollably. To have longed to love, unable to reciprocate, churning into a
puddle of lyres. Melting like wax, so desperate, Descartes, so affected,
Kierkegaard. Maybe lonely—aside a creek, pitching popcorn; often looking at
self, some creature in science, some religious pursuit. Still searching; life
is made of roses, asking for something seeming normal—with all those opinions.
So aloof at moments. So tender and close at seconds. Five to ten emotions in a
given minute. Dear Excellence, I must exaggerate, skating where demon’s dwell. To
have a face filled with tears; to ask that one vanish; so courageous as to be
alone. Just watching myself, watching her aesthetic, loving in pains; the cry
of the wolves, severed from society, wishing for a comeback.
