But the value in ardor, been a thought since arbor day and now it's past February.
Now March needs a eulogy. You said we were centenary—then lomentum. No plenum, no esprit de corp. A note on the door. Ask what for for what for. Ask what for for what for, I stayed stroppy. A drive home—Now…now…now, I am just me.


I'm told I'm the mold of what I hold against those that all fold or that held me
No control, all the gold sold as old
I'm cajoled till it's toll takes heed
it's the bold's heads that rolled cold in the wold hung on the thresholds of the wars of the lord
it's the cords that are tied tight with a sword as the seed that frees my soul from the ward's sward that floored the shored quay of what I think
Not rabbinical, I'm cynical, reticule on ridicule, Me with the parentheses, take no shit, diogenes.

Why do I doubt my doubt when my doubt's my doubt? I am that I am. My will, will it will? we’ll see. There is no god but god...No, Close the doors, you uninitiated. Why do I doubt my doubt when my doubt's my doubt? De aenima, autem, quis sum ego. Gotta have something nominal, that's how you get value, ain't that right?

Is god just an excuse to talk to myself, convince me that I have destiny? Can I have sex without watching myself cum in disgust, roll over and realize I was just talking to what was.
Warm 38 in the dark
2 fluid ounces and forty perc 30's in my heart
is this what life expected or did it even need to start
is this joke or am I laughing to cover up my awkward pauses?
Is this lead in my head or cobalt scraping my molars?
is this bed what I said or did you halt because of the other body?
How many people have I slept with if you consider what I have been forced through?
I'll be forty, sorting myself out in the dark I made with my lies, projection my guise, to torture I go? I'll torture me now and you'll torture me Two. You'll torture me too and as for me, I'll kill myself if it means I won't end up hurting you.


So why should I harbor the shit when I fathered it, what happened to value being inherent?


Stochastic in a closed loop. ‘Ut ad loca heuristics you'll get rich too’, I want your art to mean something to me…But it's frivolous.
I don't subscribe to revisionists.
I've been arguing that aggregates cease to replicate when removed, not revised, reimagined. I am an idealist, and what suspends freedom of thought is not progress. Modes of thoughts written down is writings, not what thoughts possess. Alalia, What is construed is qualia, and some of those pictures we fasten with words don't represent the thought. Some people can layer them into a wonderful story to entertain others...but we all extrapolate from a problem.
We have gone through history trying to identify archetypes from arche and not identifying the obvious dichotomies brought about from that...evil lets us take breaks, lets us understand the good of sloth. The good of wroth. The good of lying. The good of acedia. The good of evil. The good of hypnopedia. And understand that's not abiogenesis, and I don't mean that semantically or in jargon, duality is nonsense....
We are not subservient to soul, nor empiricists, or rationalists.

A man lays in bed next to a woman at noon
Her skin has slightly sagged around her eyes, a telltale sign she has been asleep for a few hours into the morning...Her lips downturned, her eyelids unwrinkled, her hands clenched and close to her cheeks.
An eased moan escapes with an exhale from her mouth. Whether it is
what it seems or not.
The man unbolts the deadbolt, He throws the grey throw over the door, and closes the door to trap it in place, closing the light out. He walks back towards the bed, knowing that the mottled grey carpet is clear and he can kneel down to roll back under the covers. On the man's side of the bed is a spindly nightstand that has a thin bookshelf underneath the tabletop, on top is a salt lamp, snowglobe, and an assortment of cheap, old candles next to a pair of his broken glasses that have melted wax over the pieces of the frames. It got there from the first time it tipped over, He left the situation with a frustrated look on his face. He took the nightstand to his side of the bed afterwards. She didn't assume the worst, but the man was frustrated with his lack of sight at the time.
This time was different.
"What was that?"
It was his fault.
Blanket slips, He trips, he clips the bookshelf with his right elbow, he catches the table with his left hand as his body rotates. The man's eyes had not adjusted to darkness, he was so tired, his bad leg had failed once again, he wanted to be quiet so as not to wake her.
"What was that?"
The man wanted her to be able to rest.
The first sound was candles thudding against the carpet.
"What was that?"
Next, A melamine plate sounding off from it's rotation hitting the floor at such a diagonal angle.
"What was that?"
The lamp, the salt lamp, the heavy, pink salt lamp, unlit—still plugged in—It hits the curtains hanging in front of the window, next to the stoop door, with the throw smashed in the top gap.
"What was that?"
The three layers of makeshift curtains, to keep the sun out. a blanket, a sheet, a tapestry.
Held on to the windowsill, so no light shines through the gap, by a raw, unbroken obsidian rock.
"What was that?"
One point three six kilograms. It's three pounds. Three pounds of black.
"What was that?"
“Was that glass”
Three pounds of black
slides off the windowsill as a pink salt rock grabs the three layers of curtain out from that, and after hearing the three candles hit the mottled, grey carpet...a plate rotates, a snowglobe hits the ground, the obsidian smashes it to pieces.
The water, the glitter. I did this to her. It's leaking onto the floor as the man's hand still steadies the rocking, spindly, nightstand in the daylight slumber.
The man broke it. That wasn't what hurt her, that was when it started to leak out. She woke up crying then let out a bellowing murmur.
"What was that?"
"Was that glass?"


When we observe this dichotomy of thought and understand our objective sense in the world...we can start about assigning individuation through the eternal souls stemming from that pre-branch and see that through knowledge of everything and funneling of energy to that one branch in information and idea...we assess and create progress…
But here and now, We create what I say we create.