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But One.

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  • But One.

    It wouldn't budge and so I knew what it'd become, I glanced at its sheer force, and understood the gravity, its magnitude. How force in an equation needing nothing could trail like bobulated maths. No wonder the sinking ships are so beautiful, it's the haunting voice of the ephemeral. And this voice--

    I want some blessing, I now have the ability to force for some time an opening between worlds, I force them open like I learned in a book.

    It doesn't matter. And this voice--

    It does matter!

    And much more haunting, is the exhiliration's jouissance; tempted to move by you we go further from the equation: from tempted to tormented.

    I am withering ... is this hell? You poke you prod you dwell ... like mistakes ... like broken song. I don't understand, but the flapping of your wings brings such agony, the sulfur is sticking into me like evil things breathing, me.

    Now I stop, I'm still.

    There's no where to go.


    Some expectant garden germinates, just waiting.

    I wince; it's the sun all over me. It's practically everything consuming me, but one.

    Yeah, but one. Like I needed a little more and One was all. One veil to cover myself up with like the American flag.


  • #2
    I feel like I've eavesdropped on a major cogitation. Beautifully written, amenOra, a kind of noir narration of the subjective drama.


    • #3
      I often wonder am I just rummaging around a dark house with sheets over coat hangers turned into easily feared totems of the hard-to-see light in the dark. Or I mean that I am glad ... if it's a cogitation I want it to be lucid, anyway, and bring to the table of you (the reader) hopefully something to relate with.

      Another friend said it seemed a part of a larger "sequence" elsewhere. Thanks, Grant, it's a pleasure.