"They're like my version of Haiku, these fuck-ups."

There's this too-distinct difference, I like to think, between knowing where you're going and how you're gonna get there. There are all these people that you can only translate as possible, so far. The problem?

Well imagine describing what it feels like to fall in love--to the person you're falling in love with. Imagine owning such a thing!, as if your version of love is neither effect nor consequence. If you think you can, maybe then there is no problem. So far, I can't describe it to myself. Failure in articulation, say you?, or else still failing to "fall in love"? I don't really mind, mind you.

Speaking of pretending. I would like to acknowledge RIGHT NOW doors with names that I've closed and windows with faces still tucked beneath. Translate: "doors" & "windows" into real live people! People with FULL-fucking-names; siblings and yards; smiles! "You were not a dot-dot-dot...waiting for me to complete you." (Ani D.)

[Don't forget--don't forget! Solipsism is narcissistic and psychotic! It's an absurdity that only people could have come up with...and then ran with at full speed! Maybe it took the industrial-strength insanity of philosphers, for to articulate most terrifyingly.]

Let us formulate them into a list of letters all jumbled up, as though they could have meant something to me. Let them carry meaning that doesn't imply me at all, not in the slightest.

Faretheewell folk,
-Talthea (3/21/07)

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