[14] You and your empty sky are nothing but a barrier.
If their deep anxiety will permit, (if it will not) there is an Ocean and a Sky that is all in due traveler's course. A china quality to birds. To besting. (I have underestimated - and yet not - the weight of string that binds itself. It's quiet, but it's still growing.) I think a better investment might be giving It over to the Ruckus entirely, atleast until I can no longer recognize It. (When I awake to find it still here, it makes me nauseous. I've had to put off eating for some weeks now. How cryptic. How absurd. A child on the north wind; but who has yet to see the Rose in it's proper corner? Maps are foreign to those who do not understand the properties of distance, I think.)
PRIVATE;
Where there is nothing.
(There is everything.)
That I will go, unbidden from the wretchedness in which I find myself, but in the case that Sasuke is the fool I take him for It will serve a proper substitution and that is It's sole purpose to me; the father is not the rye, and I am not my father, nor am I his father, and so it is that the infant - silence as it ever might be - still makes my insides writhe with displeasure.
I wonder if it is fear to snap his brittle neck; an impossibility. (That I should not ever awake to find myself afraid of an infant. Filthy, filthy. I haven't been able to smoke inside for quite sometimes and the ache in my temples is evidence. Subscribe the peace in death. Nicotine addiction. That I should masochistically lower myself into a well so that I can be fished up and sewn through with bullet wounds.)
I have been to see the Rookery.
They're wild again.
(A new project to substitute the new project.)
/PRIVATE;
Speak not that would forever-
Drink.
Hold.
Peace.
(Be not with you.)
PRIVATE;
Where there is nothing.
(There is everything.)
That I will go, unbidden from the wretchedness in which I find myself, but in the case that Sasuke is the fool I take him for It will serve a proper substitution and that is It's sole purpose to me; the father is not the rye, and I am not my father, nor am I his father, and so it is that the infant - silence as it ever might be - still makes my insides writhe with displeasure.
I wonder if it is fear to snap his brittle neck; an impossibility. (That I should not ever awake to find myself afraid of an infant. Filthy, filthy. I haven't been able to smoke inside for quite sometimes and the ache in my temples is evidence. Subscribe the peace in death. Nicotine addiction. That I should masochistically lower myself into a well so that I can be fished up and sewn through with bullet wounds.)
I have been to see the Rookery.
They're wild again.
(A new project to substitute the new project.)
/PRIVATE;
Speak not that would forever-
Drink.
Hold.
Peace.
(Be not with you.)