Thursday, June 18, 2015
Whence, whet, whents? Outland rime? Lime? Where they speak the language of the Frosted Sighs, the Argot of the Blurred Zephyr, the solvation of Wists in the countercurrents of the yestermorrow. Fears congeal, never crystallizing, when to open up, when to armor and protect, and how much of the latter is acceptable without constructing a rococo fragile carapace for the psyche, a single misstep and the chitin might injure. Stumble, thimble, meander, ache, where's that what binds with the prostaglandin receptors? Oh, I'd sally froth, but I'm no constructor. Lambda muon begrudgments sapping the edges of an algally populated tidal pool and hiding under the covers sounds like a good career move. Oh, yes, no, I don't know, do I, provident of something like a living bilita mpash and a drunk tardigrade saxophonist carefully dialing Tuscaloosa. But where the relationship narrative meanders into dangerously unbalanced, skedaddle, skedaddle. The metanarrative? Which manifest destiny to subvert? Which alchemical narrative to deconstruct into tropes and then subvert each one of those, and what to subhorizonize? I admit a persistent discomfort. Also: scatter filtering is mired in the star-dappled revenants of the underyesterday, but, whatever, I just wanted apple juice.