Was it a mirage of innocence in the age of push-ups of a violent surrealism? I was wary of the repeat acid horrors. They come back again and again.
I want to get an alibi by sitting between the sunset and moonrise. The wounds refuse to heal up and I will not lament the disfigurement of a verse by scars.
I want to say I like you yet I will not be able to tell - for want of a book which remained incomplete within its mask and pronounced words as soft as feathers.
