iqmagi

If you could hear the high pitched clicks and warbling squeals that are squeezed from these lungs in fits of manic prayer, perhaps then one might catch a glimpse of the very difficult nature of my endangered self, and begin to seize the vision of all that lay before. What I am attempting to say is that I am no less precious than a flower before the laughing Buddha. I am the green amongst molten skies wherein flecks of gold fall from the heavens as firethe great manufacturing nostalgia of the path that is cradled in the mouth of a worm. I am an empathic wretch, a fractal if you will. I do not need to bump my head on some object to loose cognitive identity, it happens every waking second and, I am its only guardian; hence the manic insurgence, the sweeping glances into the mouse hole seven leagues from my foot! I am an infant, a bastard child, the idiots soft resignation upon the nursery of a haunted glen.


Post Script: To the one or two kind souls that visit, thank you so much for checking in. I assure you that my next post will be softer almost like a whisper.....