But for laying it down, I mean—really,—laying it down. And understanding the potential like totally, that nothing may occur. That’s kind of what I mean when I’m talking about this sorta thing. That you put your whole self all the actual way out there. And you wear your heart on your sleeve. In a moment like that. But it’s more too, it’s burnt heaven’s breath smoothing out iron works for satire. And cologne like a sacrament to keep yourself safe or something. And tressed fill-lines on computer motherboards and sectioned off wards and swift nubs of celestial erasers bearing down on your chest to erase (is it you?). If the palled tall man suffering in a linen cloak by the fronds of the gate knows why he’s suffering, does he say? Hey. Halls of oats, and burkview, and buffering static mews from the banks. You may—you may—begin to become accustomed to this walking through entropy’s entropy. How ur-valdi sank in music to its own general tragedy. How the sentences voiced are like music—music. It’s strange. But it makes its makesense somehow true, in a way, and it—blinding the cephalopodic third-eye or whatever you find greedy skittering noam-berts cyclical numbers rotating endlessly, however wild. You know then I’ll feel like bleeding out on a day the clouds don’t cover it all.
Stretches. Vast inert stretches rumbling the clay. Gross cracks in the vert of the flattened sky. Hay slick with embryo, burden slick with hay, reality bumbling. All the make and model of the earth aging and aging and aged. My com-carset face ruling out name. In the mirror. Pretends he has dreamed this is happening. In the mirror. Hue before. Not a tangent to the light but there. A thought in your head wondering, “How did I get born? Don’t you remember?” I flecked brackish ire on the rails of the steps that led to the lighthouse in winter, wait. I presumed you were my own, you words without sympathy: you things I call thoughts. I presumed you were my own, and I fled.
The last gasp of me shaped. In distressed spino Dramamine. Terrified, lithium, agnate, brecht. Sloughed-off inked weird letts. In strained elven voices asking, What is the purer mask? And to not disrupt whatever wavelength frays, almost out of fear, just nodding in answer. There is a reason in fact that you dream the things you do. Ghoul fines for Bartleby. Drool lines in crest. Zoos of cute hypnautical creatures alien to the aliens and the natives alike. What has become of this house I call home?