on this edge I hear different things with different ears the rain in close deserts the emptiness of hours rolling into something larger than themselves your self, my self, their selves trapped nebulae inside the knife of time carving wise bodies when the flood of blood gets disconnected from the heart bodies full of tears recycle the vaults of thought I am no other than myself frozen in a primordial space, a shelter for the pain of those I love
sometimes there is "a search for a new transformational object whereby the self seeks to develop, progress and advance to broader and deeper stages of maturation (the progressive as opposed to the repetitive regressive transference) via an intimate relationship with another person".