Indescribable Perception as Perception: The Fever

the fever becomes a routine: sizzling, psychosomatic, living pictures.

like cryptic rites, Sunday classes, studying the fever.

undergoing the pendulum, faceless determination, stronger sentiments.

the fever is like cinema, speaking to itself, the playwright becomes the interior.

to love the fever, insomuch as to fear the fever, never fully balanced inside—if to get close, becomes disturbance.

sometimes the inner séance becomes a banshee show; the rebirth is in knowing with nothing to give; more to feeling than seeing as it becomes itself.

the renaissance sounds ghostly. there is always an answer. even if the answer is ghostly.

if to dare to speak it, despite its fertility, despite its truth, most would deny it, despite, being solid.

the fever is inside, probing the land, some tension in its understanding. filled with mystery, fuller in disguise, each episode comes with delusions—seeming real, giving life, and taking sanity.

so filled with sensory, so senseless, so emphatic, to experience—is to be affected.

like a familiar fireplace. each flicker is unique—writing its own critique. the fever is never the essence of what it becomes.

the settee-blue-moon, becoming its texture, without its skin. can’t place it on a telescopic plate, can’t ignore it once it comes, and can’t conquer it—once it appears.

the days are to memories, to place an abstract into concrete terms, too elusive to remain defined.

the fever has stardom, like a professional thief, the becoming of foxes.

the fever is ageless. it’s still growing. it becomes perception—outside of perception.

to have perceived it, the imperceivable, with concrete being so much liquid. to come to it, deceived by it, trying to unwrap it.