This is where a line is supposed to be drawn, a portal opened. A teacup frozen on the edge of a table, slant. I am always going to be here. What I wish to impart is but a sample of what here is:
some substance resembling style constantly evading grip of the mind. like an imaginary friend made of white before it was color. with sirens gently in the background, a woman speaks at once a thing intimate to her and true to all to a silent man on camera. combing the dark with pinkwet steel. that was a line from a poem i'll never publish now, i'm giving it to you instead. floating in a vertial staccato with a revolving horizon. no longer prone to lividity, by that i mean the shades of both anger and death. inhaling the strata of psychonic railways byside my daily breath. a kind of cool-headedness that is only mine which i died to find. a stretching which looks remarkably like living. private worship of amphibians. here.
times like now i want to summarize my work in a question:
how are you doing tonight?
but there isn't enough mood in the english language to quite cover what i mean. anyway, we have a plan. when you have a child, people come out of their shells to tell you how you're supposed to live. it took a year for us to realize we believed them without checking with our hearts first. not so crazy a concept when you're anticipating a human life to arrive and be completely under your care, to reach for things you don't really need, to keep them in the house until one day you open the box and say "where did this come from"? and then faces flash by, voices play, but they seem so small now, now that you've lived for a while in your new life with a new life.
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