nostalgia
The line about bringing pain to the surface. Thats a way to put it. He had the cocoa right behind him all the time. So much in it, that didnt quite sit, but made sense because none of it didnt. Intentional imperfection. This living state between people. Slammed the hand, spoke the pain, and their was recognition. Willingness to suffer. Wanting to be pulled into the sun, the lawn, the water. Or was it tests. Exchanges of hints. Rebuffs. The big red pen, circling the sin. The junky for praise that craves frustration, and so needs the flaw, like a chinaman with a swift nod towards the sparkle of god, the bug on the blanket, a wink at the fact that perfect silence cannot last. It must be let go, shattered pictures overflow, neither of them could speak until it spoke. The jackass says nobodys ever ready for a wedding of souls. It hurts. It doesnt feel right. Bliss is not the act that breaks your soul into fragments. The kiss is not a form of bliss, and yet it is, and yet it isnt. There is a wind. There is no wind. There is pain. There is no release. There is only escape. And escape is all around. There are too many escapes. Whats to hold us down when we walk home. When we carry on alone. Do we keep expectations alive inside. Do we hope and beg that our flaws will arrive. Are we gratified. He had the cocoa right behind him all the time. I thought I heard it twice. He had the cocoa. It was right behind him the whole time. I feel like Ive been vaccumed, threads have been pulled on, and little pieces of dust are missing, there are crevices that are struggling, as if to live. Youre behavior. Its very bad. Put your hands upon the desk. Keep your feet upon the ground til I come back. Three days it lasted. A resurrection through a straw, ascending into heaven, into the garden of that little patch of lawn.
The line about bringing pain to the surface. Thats a way to put it. He had the cocoa right behind him all the time. So much in it, that didnt quite sit, but made sense because none of it didnt. Intentional imperfection. This living state between people. Slammed the hand, spoke the pain, and their was recognition. Willingness to suffer. Wanting to be pulled into the sun, the lawn, the water. Or was it tests. Exchanges of hints. Rebuffs. The big red pen, circling the sin. The junky for praise that craves frustration, and so needs the flaw, like a chinaman with a swift nod towards the sparkle of god, the bug on the blanket, a wink at the fact that perfect silence cannot last. It must be let go, shattered pictures overflow, neither of them could speak until it spoke. The jackass says nobodys ever ready for a wedding of souls. It hurts. It doesnt feel right. Bliss is not the act that breaks your soul into fragments. The kiss is not a form of bliss, and yet it is, and yet it isnt. There is a wind. There is no wind. There is pain. There is no release. There is only escape. And escape is all around. There are too many escapes. Whats to hold us down when we walk home. When we carry on alone. Do we keep expectations alive inside. Do we hope and beg that our flaws will arrive. Are we gratified. He had the cocoa right behind him all the time. I thought I heard it twice. He had the cocoa. It was right behind him the whole time. I feel like Ive been vaccumed, threads have been pulled on, and little pieces of dust are missing, there are crevices that are struggling, as if to live. Youre behavior. Its very bad. Put your hands upon the desk. Keep your feet upon the ground til I come back. Three days it lasted. A resurrection through a straw, ascending into heaven, into the garden of that little patch of lawn.