All night I was saved by voices in my head that like to play with words. I remember her last apartment, this woman whose anger I was created to heal. Look at the chickadees giving glory to God!
The hemlocks are set in such a way that dawn and not dusk fills them with light. Fuck forethought, am I right? A woman whose gaze has traveled all the way to the summit of Kilimanjaro, whose songs circle the earth, binding every one of its wounds with grace.
What else is "part of being human?" Listening to Fleetwood Mac, wondering what Thérèse thought of dance. I shall not continue to deny my perfect imperfection!
Go your own way indeed. Chrisoula and I stay up until nearly four a.m., talking about our grandparents, their sleeping habits, and their grandparents, who are lost to us. Theora asks why I always get and give head in the pantry and I anwer it's obviously a critical living out of the connection between hunger and sustenance, no?
One longs for the peace that comes from knowing what they are in truth, which they already know but expertly hide. Nobody broke me in a final sense but goddamn there's a lot of hurt in here. Look at all the separated ones auditioning to be the One!
Recovering the truth is like telling a story but also like understanding the story already being told and somewhat paradoxically consenting to live the story which - in a way I cannot really explain, probably because I'm wrong about it - has to do with being destroyed. Firestone wasn't stupid so why didn't he take the last step? The shirt to which I refer was yellow and still floats in that Albany motel where every guest sees it in their dreams and wakes up afraid of the void.
Firestone writes " . . . most people reject, manipulate or control their environment to avoid personal interactions that would contradict or disprove their early conceptions of reality" (43). Troublemakers of the world unite!
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