Where we have our monastic conversations in an endless deferral to decadence, which is blackness, which is revival, which vulgar and corrupt and transcendent and beautiful, the most accurate people on earth, which is love oh love oh careless love, which just one verse in the universe earth is just one mumbled or belted song or chant, where we have our magnetic conversations in an endless deferral to the visible world, which is like this but too nervous to admit it, except some of us admit it, at the rendez-vous of victory
