eyes ahead, like bandages on the moon. he walks around. he sits among us and waits. his eyes tilted back like the sun. words uncertain, he clings to the hope. what hope? the hope of many. the hope of the silent majority, the few who fight and wish to live again.
i could begin to assert my own amazement, my own fury. i could.
i could initiate the fortune in my mind. i could.
i wonder to the sky. i wonder to the many who wish they could understand that depths of intuition that fortify the walls of this place. this landlocked imagination that spits kindness and shouts of misery. i wonder to the few who have ears and nails and teeth that sit in the bay of today.
i am the one who is myself. i am the one who makes the literate seem powerful. i am the fortunate and brave man who has read the books and written the words and cannot believe the deafening bassoon of light.
pithy. pithy like the glow of fortune that enlightens our dreams and collides unexpectedly with the future. we make that choice. all of us. we all sit and gleam and cry and laugh and wish for more, like rain or land or grief.
i cannot believe the now. nobody can, because there is no belief to be had. just sensation. just pure and wondrous sensation.