This ink is developing a curious scent, not unpleasant, the pungent
I simply must live alone Its not anyone else it is my state and station
there is work to be done many interferences, different than an interruption – these are veritable obstacles
To what?
This-some-revealing-some egoistic peeling
Must i now invent a/the person to flay bare
—> no need for that anymore)
The Kosmik game is the Kosmik joke is the kosmik comforting caress — and the kiss of Kosmos AND the kick
What are you outside of Me?
The playing field of human interactions and machinations — wet dry hot chilled laved through barren salted — Precious One,
You give “me” this “my” and this “me”
and “I” cannot seem to place it anywhere in the world Im keeping the wick just wet enough with a transplant of oil and wax
Look to the little things?
Sure And i’ll just fade in the same way the wax dissipates, just barely feeding the flame by the parched and slumping vessel of the wick burning well past its intended expiry
why do i feel like i am being fought when i am not even fighting Am i fighting without knowing, am i sleep-fighting in a world where when i am wake here i am sleeping there and dreaming this whole Night and writing & candle scene into the existence of this absurd dream character enervated and varicose, constrained to the whimsy of astral satellites masquerading in their fleshy suits Maybe that feeling in the middle of the face is just being right
Reader, he is since long cloyed by fun and games