and whenever I open a book I read for a while and ask: has anything beautiful happened yet? not attractive or positive, only beautiful; as a desert that kills, or a tundra, or a deathly star; and so often so often too often the answer is no.

we all end, and so many of us bubble up and die, invisible; and how is the whole world not weeping? am I the fool

yes there are so many things we could have done with our lives, but all I really wanted was el oh vee, and why is it, do you think, such a difficult thing for the average friend or partner?

and insomnia is just your body’s way of telling you it wasn’t designed for alarm clocks

and recently I’ve lost the plot; lately and,  just tonight I wondered if capitalism is nothing but human sacrifice, the same old story, only we don’t have to look at it, we don’t have to see it happen; people lose because someone has to, because they there’s only so much to do and they weren’t quite as strong as the others, and we’re pontius pilate, washing our hands clean of them.

all this fashionable “making a character real” always seems to make them less real to me; because all I see is the matter, and nothing more; and is this the price of their disbelief? that not even in their fiction can we have any spirit?

but let’s not too easily forgive our own instincts; you have no right to select against me because of weakness or meekness, nor I you; just because we can be animals, doesn’t mean we should be.

i am tired, but lately i feel as if I can’t hear the song anymore, the eternal, light, passion, bloom on the cusp of the future, copse and bower, blue water, and footsteps in the mud washed clean in the stream, and remember, remember