And so this is sorta my first real attempt at trying to make a person
To try to move my way up to making—flesh
A man the shape of my mind when it's prefect is invisible, so sometimes I settle for a myth with kids and a separate home, feeling lucky for the nights alone and the calm in my trouble is that it's my own and practical like the word quality on something you're trying to sell or not suffer and so we sculpt our hearts to love and war in peace, and find it's possible, that war is a form of peace we cannot and should not escape, like late at night a cyborg glowing through the radio, like bright in the middle of an atom bomb a sudden comfort, the realization that nothing lurks but the present moment and that this moment is perfect and that the myth drifts off to sleep, dreams of you, wakes up in a panic and realizes the same thing. The kind of togetherness we're craving is especially impossible, so we invented it, so it saves us like a gracious mirror, how with one idea we can make a poem and a song and a film and an object like a chair or something, and a protest, or sit-in, or revolutionary re-appearance, or recurring silence or senseless eye contact with a magi leading back to I and I, or love, the sigh of it, with just one idea or thought or before-the-thought phantom vibe, the gallant mildness of its childlike intervals and the intensity of its refusal to give up the ghost for the flesh until they know how to share their war in peace and smile for the public, like, yes, we're the same aspect in different forms and the goal becomes to not be so obsessed with the mystery we refuse to solve it, it's a noble awe to wallow and evolve in, how each time you create something, you become it too, maybe
