I never accused you. I listened. I never read it. You just have a gift. I remember how others reacted to the mention of your name. I pondered, and passed into my melancholy. It was interesting to know and never mention it, as is resided on the tiers. I used the wrong word. Indeed, it was that simple. I remember: “It was the dialogue.” Notwithstanding, the arts are mystic, the sin is exhilarating, the repentance comes near to flogging flesh. I suppose it becomes on some level. Such proliferation; such infatuation. The affliction yearns in a given direction. I met a soul—so consumed by a soul—with everything to lose in this soul. I thought to email. It’s too gray. Life is in itself fraught by opposing forces. I believe some are acutely wise, thrown into arts, wrestling with philosophic conundrums. I’m still in motion, tussling at seconds, debating how we should move. I’ve had the pleasure and discomfort of meeting one from the skies. You might have insight into what is hinted to; pardon the ambiguity. At times, one enters the crowd to locate sanity, and at points, one becomes solitary to go deeper into self. Darkness as a language. Those rooms as haunting. To live it, so close to it, and many have a clue: chalkboards, chairs, voices, trying to unveil the mirror.
