The war is a mirror. My worse sunrise. So fruitless, so fruitful. And listening shows most are filled by ambition. I would jump on the 405N and just make motion. It’s a miracle, it’s an intrusion, it’s education—so silent, such scrabble, needing more than a soul could give. I was heavy on cigarettes. I was unstable, stressed out, most didn’t see it. I imagine another, wrestling crocodiles, eating a gator; dripping hormones, sweating vodka, salty to a maladaptive extent. Love was something, so grand, wondering why the appeal to something insignificant. So mean! Would do 100 mph swerving into the 110S. Would rescue an ideal, losing memory, taste testing wines. Would idealize a creature, specialized at miseries, giving all to perfect one day. I now look back, begging myself to shut up. I wonder how in hell we love each other. So familiar with the skies, turquoise pieces, marooned islands. I could never! Back to the 10W, making science, everything begins to seem wrong. What would Love do? What is her wish? The purpose must stand solitary. No one cares about what we invest life into. Personality is leaking, pash is warn out, passions seem to wane. If but one day—perfected in essence. One day for twelve. Rather lean into it. Rather trinity excellence. Rather yoga gems. Rather a mystic intensity.
