1. 'This internal struggle toward excellence must not be confused with demanding the impossible' Just trading what we dislike and get too much for what we like and don't get enough of. Also, anything less is obscene
2. The Mute Soliloquy of a Phantom/Reconnaissance
Inadequate sir, talk me out of your melancholy village
The thresholds clash with the insides. It's odd to see an owl in daylight, trapped in her perimeter. Inadequate sir,
Coax me into your municipal calling. It's rare to split a howl into a sigh. The hour witnesses us too,
being inevitable and smug about each other, whipped in both directions by our duties (ideas), grunting, working for the circle as book-keepers, crook scholars, politicians, window-washers, bright-time owls and their observers whispering about how strange it seems to lessen the threat of difference with difference. Like cures like, I was warned, so I warned. This fire might dismiss this fire. Next, I see him struggling against the curse of having to appear, huge daynight eyes with a hollow drawl in them, averted. As kin. Ask him. My silence won't protect you. We're related. And therefore there is myth in him. Our skin is black, they say, it's a stray fate and take the pageant to the next town. Now Im yellow and high, addicted to the new tone-telling. Now I'm pink toes, rather than succumb to his songs, yielding my initiative to words and skin. I'm moving forward toward my myth. I thought we were dapper there, real meditating gunrunners, real chaperons of the absolute heard faster as mimes, jesters, gesturers, sliding down banisters into one another's truant armies, mister, sir...I'm a lady, these are my all-day-eyes
