I sat unable to control the bitterness that is the stopper that is the cycling clamp of jaw bone, the look away to avoid intervention of the melding machine. Numbed to avoid trauma and the epilepsy of fidgeting, the master gene...
Press up against the lines or stretch what there is to say if anything to the furthest possible point. Length marked by sheer supposition, nobody knows how to calculate regards such as praise, how much we need or can possibly give out before we ourselves begin to decompose into words we do not know. This is what I would most like to turn from: regret as an instance of past reflection; my hand occupied, folding a piece of paper my mind occupied looking for signs.
Maybe this is devotion, tightly, and out of guilt. The idea that we’ll “pay” for what we’ve done. Somehow. Prison or imprisoners. We may cling to one mind known well enough to invoke out of habit; regardless, like the bones in an old man’s wrist lifting some odd thing to some odd place and by and by we make our shape, we cauterize; we canonize our better instincts (without which, our independence).
As the roof collapses without reason, opinion held right in regard to others seems to matter little as the capital of total thought becomes far more important than its origin or direction. We could ask the time or position of the sun shining through the splintered wood but for now we’ll consider its light inevitable, a fact in the matter and the matter a fact or instance of recognition.
I consider one problem to be all problems or a cigarette, a next one. Things that make sense, or I’m “full” of ideas or shoot to “thrill.” In the end we get to be “The One,” we get the idea that we can or cannot understand growing older in the summer time or a certain kind of intelligence, one that speaks highly of its contemporaries. Or in other words, now that the world has been discovered, we have no other place to go.
Maybe this is devotion, tightly, and out of guilt. The idea that we’ll “pay” for what we’ve done. Somehow. Prison or imprisoners. We may cling to one mind known well enough to invoke out of habit; regardless, like the bones in an old man’s wrist lifting some odd thing to some odd place and by and by we make our shape, we cauterize; we canonize our better instincts (without which, our independence).
As the roof collapses without reason, opinion held right in regard to others seems to matter little as the capital of total thought becomes far more important than its origin or direction. We could ask the time or position of the sun shining through the splintered wood but for now we’ll consider its light inevitable, a fact in the matter and the matter a fact or instance of recognition.
I consider one problem to be all problems or a cigarette, a next one. Things that make sense, or I’m “full” of ideas or shoot to “thrill.” In the end we get to be “The One,” we get the idea that we can or cannot understand growing older in the summer time or a certain kind of intelligence, one that speaks highly of its contemporaries. Or in other words, now that the world has been discovered, we have no other place to go.
