At The Pivot of Invention or Piggyback

by the interpretation comes perception—the faraway dream, the symbols—or the way I attack myself—in harassing my screams. upon a wishbone, to feel some semblance, listening to darker parts; the curse of the psychiatrist, hassled for mists, where nothing but mindmatter has occurred. in a fiery passion, her legs so powerful, her pronouns established. so much a conception, prior to a thought, such particles of terror.
 
it's been déjàvu lately. the mind so close to its measure. with each thought, I expect something gray. the redemptive gut—the sorrow inside—a deep breath turning into a number, voltage, to imagine footprints aside the lonely fox.

the mystery becomes cultic, the conversation is gray, those that care, are imprinted—the DNA is different, the genetics are ancient, the past is in the present and the present is in part the future.
 
to hear it precisely—is the most effective agitation in the universe.
 
each word so clear. I have sworn against the belief—while wondering—if it were typed in.
 
to have given so much credit—to have ventured so far—with a face inside a phone, marrow crawling aside worms—the older version is maturing—slipping into Mozart’s Darkness, streaming Beethoven’s Fifth, affected inside—by allegro—the terms of the science, the stems of the brains, looking at Wang’s eyes, knowing for the series, the in-depth nightmare, so thrilled to survive.

the softer spring mornings—incremental succession—reverting to classroom mishaps; the deep sensation of rapid aggravation—on its interior piano; bold, precious skies, lemur eyes, so much panic in those waves, so much tragedy, it gives breath the reason to fight: militia undercurrents, that place, I imagine it’s similar—grayness—travesty, honor, the turquoise in the cyan, the blues in the violets, the spontaneity revealing the slant.
 
I know I mustn’t speak of her—the one in battle, combat, giving courage to insights, pulling souls into Chopin.
 
those dark brown scarecrows, the marble table, the leap into a direction—having known nothing. as it lives, so tangible, so aloof, so spontaneous.

in each key—the sound of spatial mockery, pure derision—becoming proud, ecstatic, and triumphant. mental enlightenment. to have a never-ending understanding of the complexities and motivations of the interior mechanisms.
 
the blackened compass—the difference in pre-thoughts, to have written ideas never touched upon.
 
in our cares, to assert, nothing is new under the salvation — we might press too hard on that point.

the former is delicate, rich, beautiful—the philosophic dinosaur; the present is the metaphysic primate—filled with penchants and cares; the future combines the two—with a deeper understanding of the why inside of genetics—to know how the interior forms its own dynamics, its inheritance, to know why voice/s come to many at points in development—like breezes, one swoop and gone—or the incessant dialogues of the schizophrenic.
 
the enterprises are taking form. silence has its communication. we’re witnessing the greatness of many taking shape. the structureless occurrences are taking dimensions, and mind is showing a pattern in its darkness; the fascination—the sour reminders—stressing the charity, vulnerability, and delicacy of being spiritual, and human. the claim is: the spiritual doesn’t require the human—the human requires the spiritual. (I am wrong! the two need each other—in mere expression.)

by the interpretation comes perception—so thrust by meaning—its needs, its gifts, to have become like a puddle, adrift upon a petal, crumbling at a feeling, intensified into devotion, with so much release—others are troubled.

medieval blues—the benighting rain, so tender the way we die inside—the world looking familiar, the pain feeling normal.