I must become more of a ghost.

 

I must become more of a ghost.

 

 

I must become more of you. Trying to live. Aglet skies. To sip serum, to feel differently, to muse upon goodness. The past—was it all bad? The future—is there a guarantee? Such hectic alcoholics—to measure quietude. So much of life has been depersonalized. I see it in souls, how we nest behind intelligence. We specialize at detaching from what makes us human. Such plumb depth, such brilliant souls, to have felt suffocated. What else could we do? More sipping. It affects us. Some separate the liquor from the behavior. Upon a drum, careful across terrors, attuned to a gut-phone. It was unwealthy, gutter ambition, we sit back and come apart. Either strength of its weakness, or weakness of its strength. To have thought some bizarre reality, lower on the cross of understanding—disputing against commonsense. Such inner wailing, or upon a good heartbeat, to adore, to love, to know kindness. Soul-quakes, such power, so removed from actions of the spirit-beats. Everything becomes commodity. Everything becomes for survival. Such outweighing enjoyments. To ask why one disbelieves. Indeed. Too much sermon. We enjoy liquor, ransom exploits, at points to adore, falling in and out of existence. Some fall head over heels, desperate to avoid folly; flogging injustice, rising into spheres, to cherish mind-prints.