The raven dwells in the deepness. So cataclysmic. So distinct of itself. And dying must be legal, never debated, on edge, and nothing matters more. They’ll give fiction, in order to survive, dear cacophonies: loud, clashing sounds, life disputed, memories on a war path. In adoring it meant destiny, it meant more of certainty, so young at it, so pure those days, before chess became a monopoly.
I dispute you, like a damn fool, who cares!
Maybe on some level, neat healing, without tears, without disdain.
I neither believe or disbelieve: it’s pure experience. I wish it was those days, with this knowledge, to say he had foresight.
They say father was a machine; so drastic, so extreme, to never look back, to move with passion, to have other children.
Her voice is magic. Her pain is privileged. To
hear is to feel. And
nights get longer.
