Death and Panic. Panic and death. De earth pans and circles under the sun – the watchful eye that ceases not; does not sneeze. Ceases no ground to watching. Always burning inside, pouring its heart out to churn the flames and bring itself to an eventual nova. Eventually. Events occur each day that turn one’s attention to some object of affection – for a time: occupation with vocation or vacation, and circumstance breathes a rolling mess of outcome that is the baggage with another seemingly unconnected situation. What do we deal with really? Really? Is it the immediate problem or it’s cause? Or rather, the infinite regress from the immediate problem. Loops – now they drive us mad. Madder than my mom when we walked into her room and picked some dough and bought some toy that my brother and I could control. Maybe that is what we have been looking for all along. Total. Complete. Absolute control. And after some delight we smashed the toy. Elusive it seems wielding control was. And another form must be pursued.
Akai Ma, who plucked the roses from the garden?
It’s in the blood. It’s in the red stuff that flows in your veins. No, that’s too easy. Sometimes the thing that reaches your extremities does not come from your heart. It cannot come from your heart. It’s in conflict with desire. Desire. See – that, there is the problem. And it was said that for your character in the story to be believable, they must in some way follow their deepest desire – an inadmissible fact. What a man needs, is fresh air, fresh air, fresh air. Need some? To run after this is…
skip over logic and nature
to break a toe and forgeeet
licking dry lips
closing your eyes
high life in max volume
… your pick
C’est de rigueur
to brave that eternal war, an internal war, you cannot, under any circumstances sit on the fence for this one or play mediator. To abstain – maybe for a while. And who are they that that speaks and said the devil’s got many faces between now and the time you are going to lay your burden down?
The shape of water is one thing to think about when I can’t swim. I can’t swim. Yes, in l’eau (how do you say that again?), I peak at two and a half minutes. It is faith, if you may call it. And now we can segue into some of the real jelly. Mango vs Pineapple. Tough one. Take a bite, the perspective, to say the very least, changes only with the journey. Why can’t we have both, and not one or the other? Why the absolutes and not a nice spectrum of tastes? For the risk of losing another. For the sin of looking back and turning into a pillar of salt. Quick question: Didn’t it all wash away and drift into the ocean and … you know… infect all of us with a diluted version of that temptation, having, really, not shape. Or does it? Tell me, if, as I watched my parents drive off and leave me off in that place they called boarding school, they looked back and searched for me in that crowd of other kids one last time? What was Lot’s wife then looking for then? A former sensibility?
Grip what gives confidence that doesn’t fade. The loops reckon a break, and what returns is what the mirror makes you a little scared of some substance. Mute the music and see what to the orchestrated symphony. Do the goosebumps come out, or does the heart skip a beat.