sometimes I'm tired of myself, the sputtering momentum that heaves into being. Drastic because each sense is so horrifyingly accute that they bloom on my face and throughout every nerve ending, electric on fire, buzzing like a fly. and then the sorry aftermath of my mistakes, abhorrance and quavering shame, you can't stand still on a moving train, oh man.

if you're beautiful I want to fold that stilted image into an eternity, box it jealously, make no more because then I run the risk of not being there-- people can be so beautiful, its too much sometimes, for in relation I pale and sink into the wall and my words sound funny and forced. And there's always the desperate risk that I'll be discovered, monstrosity, see, and the spark clicks and comes to shudder, smooth out.