it is real is it not. the contextual feel of the real and the textual seal. if not is it not just a slipping of the grip that falsehood holds and denial reinforces upon our artificial soul. i am not the retainer of this container any more than the sunshine can be held between the hands of a child on a beach. the trees hold more secrets than we could wish for at the end of a good weekend. More
in a long disparate search through the membrane there we are, longing for a another reason. be it we do it through posey or whether we even do it at all, these are some of the scattered word thoughts that meander in and out. if i could i would be more subtle but words on the page are not to be heard aloud. alas we are left to interpret the noise of others into a voice of our own. that is why it is best to read and reread until...