May 26, 2008

More Thoughts On Why You Just Don't Understand The Impression I Get From This.

Your ears are growing down the hall. I'm sure you can hear nearly every thought as it pours over emotional filters and constructs set in place by time's weathered fingers, tiny trickels through miniscule divets, or roaring rapids of inner turmoil. The intrusion scathes deeper than muscle, deeper than bone. My life is ground beef in a clenched fist; the vernacular of the modern torture that is insolvent gratitude (of the soul).

Do you understand the structure? Do we speak plainly to communicate, or out of fear of becoming dependent upon words? Do we carve the day's likeness out of marble, or the dirt from under our fingernails?
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