Bounced about on strange percussive feelings, mutable emotions rising and dieing, affixing themselves to intense rumblings and tangents. It�s the lathe of process working my head. Droll not dull, better spoken for when rested. It�s wicked when you rise. I want to fall over you like a tidal wave and come spilling over into your dreams. And I wait, mumbling into my beard. I am not an idiot, however I choose to assume this disguise. It�s complicated when it shouldn�t be, but we all know how that works. I�ve learned you scream when you burn, but be quiet when it hurts. Be patient, even when the warranty runs out and there�s not much hope on the immediate horizon, seasons will continue to evolve and change.
I t gets cold on these fronts, but eventually it gets easier. If you know what to diagram or how to begin the plotting of the landscape, examine the foundation and the soil, there could be something to redeem. Geography can be dependable like that even when I am not. Frenetic motion scrubs the soul of cosmogony, galvanizing its frame, wearing it down to its fateful seed that hibernates there, pregnant and slow.
The flesh may get worn away, but it is these bones oddly enough that are more forgiving.
