A thrill turns common, your despondency is ruined, you don't believe in tragedy, once upon a time you knew. When was that? That was then. The square root of pretense. Then again, Lauryn Hill still has it. Remember the Hennessy stain on his laugh. Avoid yoga classes. The demographic in them was primarily women in their late thirties and early forties who felt trapped in unhappy marriages to wealthy men. The words 'the soul of the bible' hung from the shop in red neon, members only. Was it a whorehouse? Were we astonished? I didn't think it. It came to me. Not tamed. Not tamable. Not a moment goes by. Not a moment goes by that I don't note the residue of a moral blackmail that drains the virtuous life of any transcendent purpose. Not sure what to do about it. (Blues connotation I don't believe in believing in) Being too good will get you into trouble. Once you get into trouble it strokes you tenderly. Once you leave you know you miss it but what you retrieve is that irresistible feeling that something's missing. You don't feel it. It comes to you. As songs and a manner of kneeling that isn't prayer but looking under the furniture for that one book of maneuvers-- code words, good words, miss thing of the early suede tree swaying don't worry about the words that break a day into scoffs and claps but save them if they come to you like ghetto children with attitude problems believing in themselves. Avoid television. Pretend you're finished pretending. Malik's eavesdropping on himself again. The audience cheers, as if they have been told a secret.
