You might appear in a shadow. I might appear in a sentence. Maybe you have a God’s eye view. Maybe you’re sitting in a den, reading Robert Greene, vowing to be a decent soul. I never know anymore, as if I ever knew. Such has been for change. Souls were receptive; it wore out its welcome. Anything written comes back. Anything believed, when shared, is challenged. My hemispheres are aching. I assume your frontal lobes are activated. Trying to shorten messages, maintain some depth, with life seeming uncapturable. They will all come back with a notion for uncanny lights. I found a word. I kept hearing it. It is deplorable. It is significant. I aim to use it in a religious context. I need to read up on it. Nevertheless, if I can push passed the barrier—to that dangerous space—to have in like a color unto Purple Rain. Needing something is different from fancying something. As there is a place in humans, utmost divine; to have been in grayness, to have felt alienation, to return gliding upon an existential. Each word flustered by meaning; each glance frustrated by intention; each study pulling at the human soul. Into rhythm; fraught by cadence, to have communed in delicate forests. So many thousands of years—with little in return, to clarify, evidence is subjective, yet real as wind, breath, overwhelming hertz.
