Turn the lights up. I need to say this before I sleep tonight. And that is that I've lost my sufferings like a pack of cards. The box should be around or in a drawer. This keyboard shows a full-house and I have a similar suit, but lesser cards. It's the writing that kneads my thoughts into edibility. Time outlasts my memory, and so recording is the only way. We can create and ruin, and the "I" that has become only an extension of the mind will demolish and design anew. The boy pulling on his shirt collar, a woman worth every lap dance of entertainment, the man behind a viewfinder, photographing an infant and mother, and even that child that twisted all of my desires for hers will inevitably turn into literature. And what difference does it make when you have all become the text on vellum, a culmination of thought for the flipping hand. The body is a bridge for the mind to dynamite: slabs sink into the river, and a gap remains in the air between two stands. What does a bridge become when it does not provide crossing? How does the body exist without analytical, and critical thought -a chemical reaction for creation? Are we trees in the forest, waiting to be cut down, only making sound when someone wanders the landscape?
You must write, and you must change your life, literature. You must adhere to your destruction, an accumulation of the explosion of the craft. Music will flood your soul in rhyme and commonality. Like birds and bees, we flap our wings, flutter the air, not drowning, but waving. And we are all biologists, anthropologists, musicians, and lyricists. The We are beggars. The they have eaten their young. The I commercialized into wit. The us abandoned the we for the sake of sexual progress. And the you asks "How long will we continue to read the words from the hordes of saviors suspended from our crosses?"
