providence hope hopehope
a system of scavengers. beautiful like no other. none more beautiful. none mine eyes have seen.
dreams have grown uncontrollably. well beyond my control in specific. casting rams. perhaps they were vikings. kevin and his coworkers. brian and the beach boys. a fleet of vans. a driver came down with shake. seizure. convulsed and shook himself, eyes shut into a popular icon. i'm uncertain of how to synthesize these elements to derive information. to comprehend. though, perhaps a tidy combination, a neatly wrapped package is unnecessary. since the image arrives from whence it would be reposited.
and it is no different. we live in a time of true believers. perhaps all peoples of all time have done so. existing as tapestry. in which, artful holidays. have their own sorts to which to conform. i'm afraid. we are frightened to admit our uninformed activity, our misinformed activity. on all sides. with perfect strangers. with perfect lovers.
thoroughly unable to make an educated guess. unable to pronounce.
but only a short while longer. deftly navigating black hole seas. affective infirm. the acts of forgetting, and of recalling. of slipping into habit and the flesh of our selves. for now we'll sit, rock, and dilate. thinking of the times.
entirely unrelated. but at one time equally distressing. perhaps moreso.
for pats on the back. pillows soiled with human blood. time was expected to clarify. but recollections seem to escape me. this is turning more graphic than intended.
it is wise to retain tales of makeshift medicine. sleep keep secrects.
howver, of action there is something to be said. a slowly spinning void. with three to five foot radii extending from my spine. keeping others at a proper distance. a fertile distance. and painless. when this accord was broken, the world was as if through fogged lenses. even those affectionately establishing or maintaining contact, i grew sick with. and senses grew to operate primarily to assess damage. parting my fingers to find them conjoined with viscous matter.
i failed to comprehend why my skin attempted to leave me.
"we try try try to stay together despite the pain."
perhaps there is beauty to the death of an idea. to the death of an identity. for there is certainly beauty to the death of a memory. or of understanding.
a system of scavengers. beautiful like no other. none more beautiful. none mine eyes have seen.
dreams have grown uncontrollably. well beyond my control in specific. casting rams. perhaps they were vikings. kevin and his coworkers. brian and the beach boys. a fleet of vans. a driver came down with shake. seizure. convulsed and shook himself, eyes shut into a popular icon. i'm uncertain of how to synthesize these elements to derive information. to comprehend. though, perhaps a tidy combination, a neatly wrapped package is unnecessary. since the image arrives from whence it would be reposited.
and it is no different. we live in a time of true believers. perhaps all peoples of all time have done so. existing as tapestry. in which, artful holidays. have their own sorts to which to conform. i'm afraid. we are frightened to admit our uninformed activity, our misinformed activity. on all sides. with perfect strangers. with perfect lovers.
thoroughly unable to make an educated guess. unable to pronounce.
but only a short while longer. deftly navigating black hole seas. affective infirm. the acts of forgetting, and of recalling. of slipping into habit and the flesh of our selves. for now we'll sit, rock, and dilate. thinking of the times.
entirely unrelated. but at one time equally distressing. perhaps moreso.
for pats on the back. pillows soiled with human blood. time was expected to clarify. but recollections seem to escape me. this is turning more graphic than intended.
it is wise to retain tales of makeshift medicine. sleep keep secrects.
howver, of action there is something to be said. a slowly spinning void. with three to five foot radii extending from my spine. keeping others at a proper distance. a fertile distance. and painless. when this accord was broken, the world was as if through fogged lenses. even those affectionately establishing or maintaining contact, i grew sick with. and senses grew to operate primarily to assess damage. parting my fingers to find them conjoined with viscous matter.
i failed to comprehend why my skin attempted to leave me.
"we try try try to stay together despite the pain."
perhaps there is beauty to the death of an idea. to the death of an identity. for there is certainly beauty to the death of a memory. or of understanding.