I ask myself where brilliance comes from. Is it swallowed up in the belly of the sky and sinks, gelatinous, until one of us contract its disease? Or is it embraced in the arms of a feathered prince who lays it upon the eyes of a napping simpleton and when they wake they can see the clouds of reason and imagination twitch and mangle together.
No one ever asked where I was when I was truly vagabond and why should they. I was alone before I left the world and I was in pieces when I returned. Was that last year or the day before? The truth is that I keep track. A special tally like a score until I no longer have the burden of proof that I am in fact not a beast turned human. I don’t know if it is working. Europe chilled me to the bone. My world is so: when I mean to escape I walk into the arms of what I saw when I left the world in 2011. So now there are more things I can’t speak of and there I was in realization that I really wanted to think that I had morphed into a feasible existence. It was a lie as large as the ocean but suffered because it was not as deep. Reality makes my soul bleed for the stable man I will have to pour myself out to some day. Some day when the air washes me away into a dream like state that is so profound it can only be real, but that is only a day dream.
Progress is wearing gears; they have to be so well maintained that I feel winter degenerating me more quickly than usual. I can only plan to sink back with satisfaction into the madness that makes me more of a specimen than you. It’s time for more. It is time that I create more steps because the slices in my soul seem so stitchable sometimes it gives me chills. More and moving. Move forward.
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