Inclined to feel uncertain the marionette syndrome; acute silence, medicinal assistance. To listen to it all until chatter clarifies itself, souls in meadows. Some region inside, studying environment, often feeling like a newcomer in an ancient body. So many gaps between then, now, and tomorrow, so many interpretations: I am left reading God’s Dashboard. Much depends upon air bags, if safety ever comes, with memories backfiring. Such existential torque, blazing torches—filled with horse power, undergoing what a second feels like. So many mind cylinders; such rapid flippancies; our world, as we claim it, seems detached from its inhabitants—otherwise, likeness of habits, familiar thoughts, human fauna, brute insistence, in gravitating towards reflection; in giving love, receiving myself, proud to have cherished my shadow. Absent to it as it takes form, wrestling strings, musing upon a show of kites; tussling over epistemics, asserting attributes, in a position of influence; rather, low at points, trudging through marshweed, soaked in mire, rinsed, noon is close by. If opera is not life, we have nothing else; such a magic woman, measured against creeds, such a moving soul—in fencing passions, in palming angels, suffused, pouring into a paragraph (we call it prose).
