How strange that I should come out today, of all the days that one could come out, a winter day, the cold to cool, to sublimate, the fire (today perhaps it's anger? rage?) and what of this little fittle fattled space, a long wooden table, a bench, a vile? I fill (place) in the center a new kind of wile...today's quandry will be that gargantuan topic: mortality (quicksilver) and gold (denial).
What do we do then, knowing we are on this earth, with so little time to spare and such an awful stench (this human mess)?
What do we do then, knowing we are on this earth, with so little time to spare and such an awful stench (this human mess)?
No comments:
Post a Comment