ask your blood
your limbs, your breathing feet
what Poetry is -
a phylogenetic anomaly
in light’s discontinuity

or just…
the strange yearning of hematopoiesis

ask the silence in your lungs
the bursting DNA, reinterpreted
how it allures memory inside your bones
how it treads conventions of sleep
with the weight of a sigh

if you ask me
what Poetry is
I’d say: breath calligraphy
a winged dream of depth
on enchanted retina
the bitter-sweet art of airy harmony

ask your hands
what Poetry is
perhaps they’ll take a moment
to bloom

The basement of my mind.

   Cluttered with **** storms and broken promises,
          Withered alongside reminiscent daydreams of passed past nightmares.

I stare...
   Into the internal dwellings of my deepest catacomb.

          Unable to process what resides in my literal unconscious dungeon.
   It's everything i've attempted to hide.

To die.
   To let dwindle between cobwebs and dust bunnies.

My breath falls short.

   Sifting through the residue of forgotten treasures and material shackles.
          They bond me.
Surround me.
   Overwhelm me...
          The unresolved burdens have taken residency within my hindered chakras.

My chest  is heavy.
   The weight distribution of disappointment is sharper than expected.

It eats away at me.
   An elusive daily ritual.

Tucked away it remains far from common thought patterns.

Waves of emotion.
   The tides roll in.
          Upon their migration my muddled secrets and hidden betrayals are uncovered.
               Discovered.

The look in your eyes when they fall upon my frailty.

My internal stack of unfiltered, unregistered, and unassured disheveled boxes.
   Full of disheveled useless things.
          Covered in a thick layer of problems i'm incapable of handling alone.

Alone.
   It sits unaltered and ever growing.

The piles.
    The filth.
          The remnants of what should have been happiness.

It all falls into misplaced sediments.

I'm a mess.
It's showing.
I'm naked.

    This hell.
This murky chamber of unwanted mementos from failed attempts and lost friendships
          This dreadful, endless room.

Oh, to live in a home without a storm shelter.
    Without room to store unnecessary baggage and all the unclaimed items in my mind.

To find solace in meager living.
   All this weight fitting into a backpack.

To minimize my insanity into a carry on.

   To leave.
To go.
    To be light enough to feel the light.

To escape this cellar.
     To live.

To release my self from my own idealogical prison.
    To penetrate the bars of fear.
          To dig myself out from all the things I never want to speak of.

To be free.
     Ahhh, to be free.

To breathe fresh air over molded dust clouds and stale particles.
     To touch without needing to rinse my soul clean.

To re-stack, rotate, and Tetris these piles of insecurities.

To break habits
           that i've reinterpreted from childhood addictions and failed father figures.

To be better than what i've become.

To set fire to this sham of a lifestyle.
     To be reborn in the ashes of this outgrown armor.

To let go.

To make you proud.
     To find pride in myself.

To not be embarrassed by my place settings and mismatched knick knacks.

To allow souls into my temple without them stumbling into my isolated lunacy.

To welcome love.
        To love.
    To love even the darkest crevasses of my being...

I need to renew my license to live.
     Overdue and out of line,
           My past self has expired.

One step at a time, breathe.
    One box at a time, breathe.
       One thought at a time, inhale.
    One lust at a time, exhale.

Inhale.
    Exhale.
Breathe.
        Repeat.

Awaken.
      Accept.
  Grow.
          Repeat.

Violent roses
give me woozes everyday
I'm hammered on my own
something
is always slipping through
a filter of justifications

language misrepresents me
I don't think words that
spread ideas like intrinsic responsibility
are relavent outside of cults of personality
So I'd prefer to say
through a filter of new ideas
of what safe thoughts are in a fear house
reinterpreted

Soft violet soup
gifting a brainhorse with a two by four
or convictions falling
out of atrophy
or perhaps
a lack of neccessity

I don't know
maybe
a letting go of an abusive tack
that pressed you to let go of joy

Oh I don't knoowoh
To find yourself a damaged adult
with a mind aimed at forgetfulness and
forgivefulness

A new rage forms in tandem
with a promise
to a menacing question asked
by those who unfetttered their wallets

but that was ages ago

and now it's time for a letting go
at least that's
what the last night alone begot

but who is past that inside lie
that furthers time

well I can't see anyway

So **** it I'll lose it or die.

The basement of my mind.

   Cluttered with **** storms and broken promises,
          Withered alongside reminiscent daydreams of passed past nightmares.

I stare...
   Into the internal dwellings of my deepest catacomb.

          Unable to process what resides in my literal unconscious dungeon.
   It's everything I've attempted to hide.

To die.
   To let dwindle between cobwebs and dust bunnies.

   Sifting through the residue of forgotten treasures and material shackles.
          They bond me.
Surround me.
   Overwhelm me...
          The unresolved burdens have taken residency within my hindered chakras.

My chest is heavy.
   The weight distribution of disappointment is sharper than expected.

It eats away at me.
   An elusive daily ritual.

Waves of emotion.
   The tides roll in.
          Upon their migration my muddled secrets and hidden betrayals are uncovered.
               Discovered.

My internal stack of unfiltered, unregistered, and unassured disheveled boxes.
   Full of disheveled useless things.
          Covered in a thick layer of problems i'm incapable of handling alone.

Alone.
   It sits unaltered and ever growing.

The piles.
    The filth.
          The remnants of what should have been happiness.

It all falls into misplaced sediments.

I'm a mess.
It's showing.
I'm naked.

    This hell.
This murky chamber of unwanted mementos from failed attempts and lost friendships
          This dreadful, endless room.

Oh, to live in a home without a storm shelter.
    Without room to store unnecessary baggage and all the unclaimed items in my mind.

To find solace in meager living.
   All this weight fitting into a backpack.

To minimize my insanity into a carry on.

   To leave.
To go.
    To be light enough to feel the light.

To escape this cellar.
     To live.

To release my self from my own ideological prison.
    To penetrate the bars of fear.
          To dig myself out from all the things I never want to speak of.

To be free.
     Ahhh, to be free.

To breathe fresh air over molded dust clouds and stale particles.
     To touch without needing to rinse my soul clean.

To re-stack, rotate, and Tetris these piles of insecurities.

To break habits
           that I've reinterpreted from childhood addictions and failed father figures.

To be better than what I've become.

To set fire to this sham of a lifestyle.
     To be reborn in the ashes of this outgrown armor.

To let go.

     To find pride in myself.

To not be embarrassed by my place settings and mismatched knick knacks.

To allow souls into my temple without them stumbling into my isolated lunacy.

To welcome love.
        To love.
    To love even the darkest crevasses of my being...

I need to renew my license to live.
     Overdue and out of line,
           My past self has expired.

One step at a time, inhale.
    One box at a time, exhale.
       One thought at a time, breathe.

Inhale.
    Exhale.
Breathe.
        Repeat.

Awaken.
 ­     Accept.
  Grow.
          Repeat.

The streets of Paris were clogged by rallies and demonstrations on the Sunday of fashion week. At the Trocadero, a pro-rally for embattled French conservative presidential candidate Francois Fillon, blocking the route between the Valentino and Akris shows; at Bastille, an anti-Fillon demonstration.

The French elections — and ever-increasing security — were providing a tense backdrop to the autumn-winter collections, much like Donald Trump, Brexit and Matteo Renzi did on the fashion circuit of New York, London and Milan this season. Politics and the changing of the guard, women’s rights and diversity may make fashion seem irrelevant until you add up the value of the industry to the world economy. In Britain it is £28 billion ($45bn) — and that is small fry next to France and Italy.

Perhaps politics and social change have influenced the French designers for there was much less street style this season and a lot more tailored, working clothes on the catwalk. They used mostly masculine fabrics but worked in such a graceful way. You need only look at Haider ­Ackermann, Chanel, Alexander McQueen, Christian Dior, Lanvin, Akris and Ellery to see this — lots of great wearable clothes.

Karl Lagerfeld wanted to fly us to other worlds (to abandon the mess here perhaps) in his Chanel space rocket. There were checks, cream, silvery white and grey tweeds, for suits and shorts and dark side of the moon print dresses that cleverly avoided the 60s’ ­futuristic cliches. Silver moon boots, space blanket stoles and rocket-shaped handbags were as space-age-y as it got. There was quiet, seductive tailoring at Haider Ackermann — tapered silhouettes in black wool and leather softened with a knit or the fluff of Mongolian lamb for a blouson or skirt. At McQueen the asymmetric lines of a black coat or pantsuit were ­inspired by the fluid lines of ­Barbara Hepworth’s sculptures, whereas David Koma reclaimed the soaring shoulderline of Mugler’s 80s silhouette for pantsuits and mini-dresses for the brand.

Christian Dior’s uniform-inspired daywear was produced in tones of navy blue with 50s-style navy belted skirts suits, long pleated skirts and some denim workwear. “I wanted my collection to express a woman’s personality, but with all the protection of a ­uniform,” explained Maria Grazia Chiuri before the show.

There was more suiting at ­Martin Grant with voluminous trousers, cummerbunds and men’s shirting. The cut was more mannish at Ellery and Celine with ­Ellery balancing her masculine oversized jacket looks with feminine bustier tops with giant puff sleeves. The mannish look at ­Celine was styled with sharp ­lapels, slim-cut trousers under crushed textured raincoats, whereas ­double-breasted jackets (a trend) and peacoats over loose-cut trousers appeared at John Galliano.

Checks jazzed up the tailoring at Akris where there were more sophisticated double-breasted jackets and swing coats, and at ­Giambattista Valli from among the flirty embroidered dresses a dogtooth coat emerged with a waspie belt and a suit with a peplum skirt.

Stella McCartney displayed her Savile Row skills in heritage checks for her equestrian-themed show. Of course, she is crazy about riding and her prints featured a famous painting by George Stubbs, Horse Frightened by a Lion. It turns out Stubbs was another Liverpudlian, like her dad Sir Paul.

Of course Hermes’s vocabulary started with the horse and there were leather-trimmed capes and coats that fitted an equestrian, or at least country theme worn with woollen beanies and big sweaters, offering a different way of tailoring, in an easier silhouette with a soft colour palette.

The highlight of the week for Natalie Kingham, buying director at MatchesFashion.com was ­Balenciaga. “Great accessories, great coats and great execution of ideas,” she says of Demna Gvasalia’s off-kilter buttoned coats, stocking boot and finale of nine spectacular Balenciaga couture gowns reinterpreted in a contemporary way. “It was wearable, modern and the must-see show of the week.” It was also, she pointed out “the must-have label off the runway with every other person on the front row decked out in the spring collection”.

Although tailoring worked its subtle charms on the catwalk, there were flashes of brightness, graceful beauty and singularity. Particularly bright were Miu Miu’s psychedelic prints, feathered and jewelled lingerie dresses and colourful fun fur coats with furry baker boy hats. Then there was the singular look evoked by Austrian-born Andreas Kronthaler in his homage to his roots, with alpine flowers, Klimt-style artist smocks and bourgeois chintz florals worked in asymmetric and padded silhouettes for Vivienne Westwood — some of it modelled by the Dame herself.

Pagan beauty, the wilds of Cornwall, ancient traditions such as the mystical “Cloutie” wishing tree led to Sarah Burton’s enchanting Alexander McQueen show, which was another of Kingham’s favourites with its unfinished embroideries inspired by old church kneelers and spiritual motifs. “I loved the artisanal threadwork and the spiritual message that was woven throughout,” she says. The artisanal and spiritual she considers an emerging trend around the shows. “It had a slight winter boho vibe but much more elevated.”

Chitose Abe shared that mood for undone beauty with her Sacai collection of hybrid combinations of tweed and nylon for an anorak, and deconstructed lace for a parka, and puffers with denim re-worked with floral lace for evening.

There was more seductiveness at Valentino and Issey Miyake. The latter’s collection shown in the magnificent interiors of Paris’s Hotel de Ville, shimmered with the colours of the aurora borealis and used extraordinary fabric technology to create rippling movement as the models walked.

Valentino was a high point. On a rainswept Sunday Pierpaolo Piccioli cheered us with high-neck Victoriana silhouettes and long swingy dresses in potentially (but not actually) clashing combinations of pink and red in jazzy patterns of mystical motifs and numerology inspired by the Memphis Group of Pop Art. The sheer loveliness of the collection was enough to drown out the world of politics only a few blocks away.Read more at:http://www.marieaustralia.com/short-formal-dresses | www.marieaustralia.com/blue-formal-dresses

the intellectual and practical activity
of the systematic study of the structure  &
behavior of the physical & natural world
through observation,  experiment & experience
is called science generally; Pythagoras positing
the theorem that reality is composed of
interconnecting points in space & that one
could instantly travel from one point to another
in what he cryptically referred to as the
[transmigration of souls]; a concept taken by
Christians & reinterpreted to mean the soul's journey
to heaven or hell;   Pythagoras meaning the physical
manipulation of dimensions but this era's
technology has yet to achieve that; Thomas Edison
& Einstein each had a part of the puzzle
but neither had the whole thing

Where I came from
It was that time in history
White people who loved
Black guys faced misery.
There was a huge batch
Of ugly names we earned.
And sometime more than
Just crosses were burned.

Where I came from
The Bible was used to beat
To abjure and vilify us
And toss us into the street.
We were demonized for
Bedding animals they said.
I just couldn’t stand that
Kind of hatred in my head.

Where I came from
Hypocrisy and bigotry rule.
They go to church Sundays
And the rest of the time
They act the total fool.
They demand the right
To tell me who to choose.
Demand the same of them
And brother, you lose.

Where I came from
They throw around the words
Of someone called Jesus
As if they had really heard.
But talk to them of the book
They claim is the word of god
And they come up with answers
That can only be called odd.

Where I came from
There are beggars on the street
And children without food
Or shoes on their tiny feet.
And yet they sing songs
Of good will to all men.
But they really don’t mean it
And prove it again and again.

Where I came from
Much is called restricted.
The Golden Rule and peace
Are so totally conflicted.
I grew up seeing goodness
Reinterpreted by the white
That practiced prejudice
And hate and called it right.

misunderstood
reinterpreted  
stereo-typed
re-processed
de-sensitized
de-humanized

left to waste on the shelves
of big-box stores for eternity

a skeleton looks
back in the mirror

Antiphon Benedictus II / Sybilla Herophile

The wide influence of history was automated in rituals; it would indicate a bibliographical time rather than secular. The antiphons will take us through the hallelujah of eternal times and along the path of the Spring of Castalia. In singularity will be Delphic Herófila, primordial of Delphi prophesying Trojan conflicts. By reinterpreting her priesthood, she leads us to the Templar Adyton, which can be reinterpreted in a Christian way in the classical antiquity of this antiphon. Being able to be captive, she looked serious and wise, visionary and with customary strange gestures, for an abnormal state of Young Sybilla woman who was later supplanted by older fortune tellers.

The Antiphon Benedictus says: “Herophila you were plagiarized and ridiculed by a heterodoxy that knows rituals and sacred cares, the Pneuma that emerged from the cracks upset your incongruities, which settled on the millennial pedestal in Macedonian territorial geographies, uniting with Alexander the Great, recirculating in Sibylline centers and dividing the doors of Sober Hell, towards epiphanies of the cult of light, and of the sacred pairs of wisdom.

The discussion took place in front of those who surrounded the perimeter of the Antiphon; there was Vernarth and Saint John the Theologian. For decades the twilights have not made the red blood cells of the Cassotis iridescent, which defied a hydrographic competition, for the purpose of desembalming the bodies of the Falangists that emerged from the Temenos of Patmos; secular space for the auditoriums of the antiphon. With ornamental fictitious oracles envisioning the inadvisable opening of opposing eyes towards a Mysta or Mystírio Eleusino, so that finally, given the toxicity of Mercury's sulfide, they would emancipate themselves by making objections to the hypothesis of ruddy post-mortem symbols, which the braves of Tel Gomel, when appearing outside the extinct topic, so that the Benedictus songs would button their navels, which was the only thing that united them to the Sybillas who came from the expropriated ethics, and from the Cinnabar outpatient clinics for long periods providing life in the quantum of Mercurial Ambrosia. Being this preferably housed in the skulls of the V (Fifth courtyard of Helleniká, but this time with eschatology of the Koumeterium of Messolonghi). Eurydice is associated with an exhumation in front of the alerted and emitted effluvia of the Herophile after the Zygastron, which shone from a canvas and that Borker preserved from the Laurel Woods, in a sycalyptic horizon of the equinoctial Aftó of the Kaitelka Cetacean, which nitrated oxides from the eastern vertical, on its back, spauto shredding with purple carbonates towards the Rubicunda del Tinctorium, and from the rhizome that hydrated the enervated and dispersed drops that remained from the convulsion of the Metelmi wind, and shaking the fin that came from this Balaenidae specimen Mysticete, in casuistry of a whale with Down syndrome, but with prodigious psychic powers.

The Cinnabar wandered through the clothes of Tel Gomel's disembalmed ones, who colored themselves with sulfur mercury and revived from the oracles of Herófila, who woke up early with Eurydice validated by her Orphic impetus like no one else. The specific parts were tints of vital signs and epidermis shoots that trembled through the epiphyses of the tibiae that decanted arthritic through the femurs, and that rose with timid muscular masses, until they reached the instep where the celestial holes of Vernarth appeared, that he struck each one of his faithful with his Xifos sword, to bleed a bronze chalice for their reduced movements, stacked on crossed legs with dejected cheekbones that fell on their feet.

Reddish spots on his jaws and on his forearm they were transposed with red salvific footprints of Eurydice that he brought from Charon, but that expressly limited them in the posterior scapula that came arriving from the fifth courtyard of Messolonghi completely stiff in black. The muscular insertion was made of pale ocher, and the Cinnabar was elemented to verticalize the involuntary bodies of the earthquake, before the controversy of the makeup of their resurrection, after an outfit that they had never used before, pigmented by an antiseptic oracle of Herófila, which already insisted to compensate with war shrouds the size of the Benedictus that self-shod the iron suns, and that buried fangs of light and life in their facials, moving in the nervous of the trigeminal towards the ethmoid, causing rales of stimuli feminoids, for the enthronement of the women present in the only atrium of the Mandragoron. Thus they remained in multi-partial stages of the psalm that revived them, to go to meet the Hegemon Alexander the Great, who emerged synchronously from Larnax, from an eruption that uttered the greatest insults of political clarity, in the fierce agonies of his perforated lung. Parasites were sprinkled like empathic germs of Hellenism, conferring Masken resurrection, beyond the curtain or canopy that separated them in Persepolis..., returning from the Indus, for the funeral that would pass through the departure of Hephaestus. Rigor-mortis buried a soul overheating in pulmonary contusion, after a feverish respite, and re sulphating in the rhetorics of Plato and Aristotle.

The Sybillas no longer menstruated on the tripod, the Pythoness in their prehistoric eagerness was conceived twice cyclical, which were reconverted into prehistoric female raptures that confirmed the exo-red blood cells of the menstrual torment, to become reconverted Christian goddesses who were doubly buried in one past joined to the other, and that they were about to precede the next past-present, on an oak that supported them, clinging to them to bear the pain that never existed.

The Matzoh, was tripled in Vernarth's imagination in the first chalice of Elijah, which was expected for this mass balance in the Eunomia and in Euphrosuné, for whom there were few steps in the applicability of the kingdom and the underlying legislation of the fourth chalice of Elías, who was already inaugurating the end of all commemoration. They would have the accommodation relative to San Pablo and San Juan to join and to stage the arrival that was expected of Elías by his spiritual presence attending as an ekklesia in the assembly of the family that was preparing to dine, they will open the house in the Fourth Arrow of Zefian for domesticity and conversion of the magnanimous visit of the Hexagonal Birthright to Judah, without the yeast ferment to cross Zefian's sword in the halo of remanence that originated behind the wick of the Menorah that Vernarth held in his hands, thus When lifting it and tilting it horizontally, Saint Paul made it the Notós and the Dyticá, making the gospel a sacrosanct concoction in a double chalice crossed with the Matzoh bread in the hand of Saint John, with the first-grade olive thread that had to teach it to the spirit of the community, next to the kályx inside a Kratera, that welcomed them on the grail greater sprinkler for a great spiritual climate. They all grappled with the stillness for those who welcome them in a silence that was from another world, where Saint Paul and Elijah in their first ovation applauded Vernarth's goodwill for having brought Saint John to Judah with them, specifying the return of their forced diaspora, which meant a great breath of prostration from the letter of the Romans, for a plot against whoever converges in a community inside and outside from the site that saw the divine light, with the very mass of light hanging over the ribs of who can establish his sovereignty, with frugal needy publics that came from Corinth. Elijah was spiritually in the Cenacle, and he was in the fourth cup of the full moon that burned in the styles that hung from the highest multidimensional reasoning before a prophet, who was still fleeing sensibly from King Ahab pursuing him towards his state of humiliation, where he could not compensate himself from a concentrated oak table, and in the Mataki that made a universal meeting enabled with the twelve guards of Seleuco, who attended by means of a conditioned dreamlike weakening, and by the worship of pious exercise that would soon take him in the flesh and in wine, from his own needy who were once his chains. Ritual gestures came from their faces when they saw the kind of fidelity when they felt that they could live with their hands with roasted and immolated meat, with pieces of matzoh that they liturgized similar to Pesach. The center of the sacred synagogue fire was of sacramental flow in the eclectic portal that came from Procorus. The schizophrenic of the pantheon of union buffoons went with Euphrosuné or Eufrésine, who were instantiated among the laments and revelry for the Maenads, who shone in the flow of their sadness, to the full of their joy with cyclamen that was sustained in the prosopon worn by both goddesses with the maskein stew of Vernarth and Euphrésine, to dignify their presence before the Hexagonal birthright. Thus, the Maenads retreated beyond the third sacred fire, close to the base of the low burps of Dionysus who were scalding with Euphrosuné, in delusions to make her Maenad.

Saint Paul says: “From the cistern of Siloe the Torah was reinterpreted, the blind could not see and enter the turbulent waters of the lower cistern, similar to those of the Hasmonean. He also could not enter the synagogal, he said that he could not enter because they left him outside because he was handicapped and could not walk freely. The Mashiach told him to get up and take his belongings. The nonagenarian got up and walked to his house, just as the Master indicated. On the way he met some followers of Shammai, telling him that he could not carry heavy things on the day of Shabbat. Subsequent to this beneficial event, the Mashiach was enthroned due to this decision before the Sanhedrin, because he mentioned to them that he got up and walked, thus Yeshua interpreted the Torah in his life and property. From that moment on, the 18 clauses for converting Gentile pagans to proselytes were optimized, modifying only two, constituted by Yeshua. The school of Hillel was systematized under his erudition with the Pharisees since its foundation, making this the rabbinical school that would prevail from now on, due to the magnificence and exegesis of the Mashiach. "

In this way Shammai, with his rigidity of protocol, was questioned by his interpretation, making Hillel's more human and of personal piety with Faith-reason. They get up from this micro-journey of reminiscence, and Vernarth walks with Saint Paul and Saint John, Vernarth takes Artemis's bow, takes Zefian's fourth arrow that he brought from the Duoverse, then takes the bow and propels the arrow to where the Vóreios del Aftó, to transfer the bronze tip of Hillel towards that direction, distancing it towards the arrival of the religious objective, and creating the transferred hand of Vernarth in that of Hillel, to channel at the exact point of arrival where the Megaron will begin to be erected. Shammai, together with the minority of the voices, was skewed in the fourth arrow that was propelled in the objective of the Torah, "Bow and Arrow", touching the theology of the house of Beit Hillel, and demarcating with systemic devotion and mercy the Eruv, who was present with Hillel, making a dramatic life, the traumatic gloss of who one day carried a tree on his shoulders to a dark and unburied altar since the equinoctial of Aphtho; carrying the log, even if it had been on Shabbat, which brought Kaitelka as the last guest with Borker, when the last mogote of the whirlwind of the Profitis Ilias wind tunnel was almost closed, bringing this ballenid heavy as a cross.

The chaos of history
Where we try to find patterns that quickly crumble, where fear of *** is a constant
Fear of free thought is constant
Regret after war is constant
To find organizations of prejudice under the euphemism of protection is constant
Inequality has been constant. I cannot think of a time in history where hierarchy has not existed. This doesn't mean it couldn't ever exist
Perhaps if our empathy was increased by our tools for expression, there would be more equality, if feelings were so out in the open that they couldn't possibly be ignored
That politicians lie for support is a constant

Given these constants, why do we continue to lament?  Because we dream of an ideal, somehow, because we are dis satisfied with what is put in front of us, because as scholars we criticize, why can't we accept?  The individual makes a choice to live for change because he sees the possibility, but he finds that his honesty is misinterpreted and reinterpreted by the ***** to fit an ideal that never was, that the maytr becomes inhuman, a lie of pure soul that was far from the truth of, how perceptions change naturally and the idea of change may be an illusion

That Gandhi did not liberate India, but rather shifted the tides in the right direction as a performer, a martr, that the liberation of India happened on it's own. That a man cannot change the world, but live his life in his own ideal image of it, which influences but does not actually change,

I want to run away from my own thinking
It gets carried away from me, and suddenly I am a victim, or perhaps my self pales in comparison to my emotion, like a small child gazing at the golden gate bridge on a dark night a he huddled in his think windbreaker, it is a hopeless cause, that emotion is as real as any rational thought, that there is no real distinction, the idea that everything is about *** except for ***, *** is about power, but emotion is not about power, it is from a scours that is beyond the animal, it is absolutely an completely human and alien to the natural world, I am pale to the comparison of this life, and my emotion drives my passion, and in my rational mind I am hungry for food and drink and for power, rationality, the animal instinct, that I fear death when I am rational, how pathetic and now time consuming and how completely undeserving of the following feeling of pervasiveness, that I am capable of anything and death is my fate no matter what my choosing, oh, I will choose the former every time, until my rationality dies, yes I will go gently into that good night

I weep and I beg, please take me away
I weep and I beg, please take me away
I weep and I beg, please take me away
I weep and I beg, please take me away

There are so many ways to drink and so many paths to your uncle sleeping in the second to last car on earth. Echo trails off to become a widowed expert on the reinterpreted dreams of its unmade phone. Eels translate for lightning. Children injure themselves in one vehicle accidents. In their small lives I hope their presence has understood an immoveable god. You keep a little water in the lungs of the doll.