From Sappho to Yuja Wang

those faraway roses, meant for certain sharing, made for purpose—one must be absorbed. the piano unto frustration, the touch unto pleading, the makeshift unto made concrete

—loving is natural.  

she was a good child. she would listen, process information, and regulate feelings—made to adapt, product of the singsong, alive, fervent, fluid, a furnace—what would go sour?

in life, quite aligned with something bad, or good—to make use of one, to assert another is useless.

a lady shifts identity—the pain was just too much—trying harder to appease consensus—dying harder to avoid an ulcer.

the tomb of the rebel—the prison of the monster—the seduction of animals; bothered at moments, tugging around our predilections, our chainsaws, our suppositions concerning ulterior motives.

a soul married into writing. he wanted to outdo her, instead of partaking. we must fathom excellence.

the wheel is in a wheel—aloft cryptic powers, we shouldn’t be held to silence, but we mustn’t say too much, and to whom it may concern: how do we fit?

doubt has been a huge ‘thing’ with many—self included: the greater the doubt, the depth is excellence. desert sacrifices. too much pain to write; too much writing not to feel pain:

the inward observer trying to express an agenda.

eyes from a space. instincts made raw. if we use each other, we love each other—if we decide against each other, we loathe one another.