The very most thing that you aren’t capable of extending. Where? A bumpy carapace under which you slowly erase what you had come to believe about yourself…
To. Approach it. A forelonging. I forelong this understanding. Capture it. I forelong the blank space of erasure. Meaningfully.
The urge, the motivation for it. There is little I desire in that there is little I lack. And under the stars, what sky. The force of it astounds me but I have become mountainous, swallowed by my meager “human profanity.”
Don’t tell me I encourage you. I swallow you. The world conspires to slurp you up, a stumpy pulp. My words were a token of their designs. Don’t buy them. They flower in the cavernous silence of your total failure.
silentbroadcast 