it is hard for me to admit … i have no stories to tell … only scattered brain flatulence with the same day to day recessary ratio … for health they say … i believe in non-belief and potential and that is all … paradox prone as i am … is action as necessary as life? … it is always lacking as my precieved intentions … an antipode of afterthought amusement … slyly fucking up right and left so there is no suspicion or confusion of humanity… just quiet quivering thigh … painfully aware of the space and my personal coordinates inside … surrounded, not surrounding … that there is separation no matter how hard i clutch skin and your guiding arm that fell away long ago … there is pain when i realize i am standing straight and walking … but it is on a foundation of mystic ghosts and mysteries i could not even explain to myself …
let alone you … what is comfort to me? and that is discomfort … that i need to be dissatisfied because simply that is inexplacably who i am … no one has to understand for it to be as it is … it no longer bothers me as in the adolescent wonder why … i still wonder why, but with more conviction that it is the questioning more than the product answer … i question you because it is what i do … i’d rather you slightly ask yourself than answer me …