The immolation, the immortality. At odds with the ends. The casting of a wide net with a specific catch in mind. The elusive right in front of you colorblind pinata, waiting for someone to beat the candy out of it. The desire for open-minded precision, as opposed to the by-the-numbers figure of beauty. A dry erase slate for a meteor shower mind. Clean, impermanent; again and again. Dirt on your hands, blood on your face. The rarefied air comes in waves and miles to go until you leap. The literary dance in a minefield of popular expression. Oh yes, that would be the fox(hole)trot, where you find neither atheists or enthusiasts.
No comments:
Post a Comment