Thursday, May 4, 2017
I know a man who would worm this scene through the muddy lenses and gears of machines, which in the complexities of multicellular aggregation, I suppose we are. I find his explanation thorough, and the induction of his thought is swift and convincing but utterly meaningless.
I know a man who would twist this scene through the cataracts of God, who is the only real thing and the rest is illusion. In the complexities of ontological agglutination, I suppose this might be true, but it always seems to return to the preacher.
Both of them profoundly wield words. To me, this entire arrangement explains why poets drown in poverty for the kiss of the moon.
I find that on a quiet night like this, the water in May is beautiful enough.