Razors, sinking a depth into it - whatever it is, it wants to be, I want it to be so. A lifetime, a change, a desire made physical made beautiful. Wells were dug, music was made, brick by brick, puzzles clicking together and forming wholes. They made me try. They are my trying.
That line, that is where God resides. Inside of us, yes - but furthest away. In the precipe, in the finale, in the apotheosis of the character. In the will made flesh, made immortal. I feel it when I think it, I make it when I want to. They allow me to.
Birds to toads, us eyed beasts take no notions, seek regret over defeat, seek solidity, nature, seek the means to surpass observation. Cowards, we are not. But the tree, the flower, that abrupt vapidity, that being of naught. To approach it is to perish. To become it is to die.
©another
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