westid

i sell here, sir, what all the world desires to have – a foretaste of what is to come, and a shadow of what will be. on some evenings, where the owls carved in stone are across the court yard – there are gatherings that i will never get to see. i might not hold it all on my back but could bear it some where there fair burgeon on it all together beside me

in the heart of XY, there are ones who behold the long gone XX days of old

in the mind of XX, the XY as their children – with all the strength of the mercy what you may give them. enlightened are the XX, who give their all to every life that live them

it’s hardly a conspiracy between some people to have an enhanced level of mutual understanding. although i may have a more direct way of speaking with an individual
these things, even if by design exclusive, do not less qualify either as belonging to the collective
even if you drive your own thoughts one way, simply because you’re alive – but across another route on the map your beloved hive mind arrive … then forever derive the conscious countenance of the quieted, and neither spiteful see, nor vengeful be debris that may fall, after all, free if nothing else from the passing echoes of me

it’s difficult to understand the feelings that occur at times inside. they want me to close up, they get me open wide. i can’t find a way of giving you what i am, without so defining though the shape of what i want. i can fill in the parts of who i am to some degree in every detail, there between them the gaps unmentioned though, what silence urges your voice – can’t be hidden because there is no way to hide what isn’t there, so the very moment i’m trying to hide is when and why i fail

people used to be frightened of the feelings inside one another that they could not control. if you catch someone on the right night, they will sell their soul. that doesn’t mean you can absolutely own a fraction of me if you devour me whole. fuckin burn me down then if that’s what you really want just because i went looking for dockers that everyone else has to pay for the privilege to waste if they want to roll

i love those unexpected things that cut through everything and grasp you inside, a splinter cell, such sabotage, you feel before you get the chance to realise what you weren’t ready to stop in time before it’s pouring with rain, mosquitos, and dragonflies

i don’t presume to know what makes it real when you know it, sometimes the things that i think are happening have these moments like listening to someone talk to me while i smoke a cigarette and don’t concentrate so much are things that i would think when i go over things they’ve been talking to me about. points that, had they not so elegantly have made, i would have been trying to figure out connections while being vacant i usually wouldn’t have made