So what is he? A western with the bangs Of blacks and whites? A horror film where one Small man must **** the wound of the unknown? A period romance, perhaps: the flags With mathematic turns, and fronts that free The watchers of anxiety, and drive Out all the critics with a glistening nerve. I cannot fathom what he is to me.
He is. He is. He is. He is. You see, That’s all he needs to be. The seas, the seas. What should I care for these when all my shaky Sustenance from his Apollan whiteness Falls as mana in the wilderness? He is to me what film can never be.