Every time my bones show through my clothes;
my feelings are not dressed with harmony;
my movements are bumbling and coarse;
our words are loud and piercing, spears and not a bridge;
our worries loaded onto one another like unwanted horrors;
our eyes careless, as though seeing were not a miracle;
one's spirit too proud to bear the weight of care;
one's body too tired to love;
one's mind too lazy to change its ways;
food too heavy to digest;
drink too untidy to handle;
the world too crucial to be silenced,
a poison separates the skin to show what was made to remain inside. It burns the beauty of surfaces, under the pretence that simple is good.
Deep was conceived as gradual, a layered descent down the steps of intimacy, and not the destructive thrust of a temporary pleasure to heighten the senses of those invading our life.
Form is all we have to carry a gift made of fluid perception, conforming to but reshaping the world. No poverty can justify the loss of such rituals, perhaps the only sign of hope, and time can never be the vital element when we are left with a job half done.
Infinitely complex life beats beneath a plain landscape of light and linear horizons. A man must know that every wanton show of blood and guts brings us closer to defacing the features uniquely created for every one of us to display and for others to see and recognize as the object of passion.
Knowledge does not fool with fire. It observes with patience and respect, like a princess in a pink dress learning the steps of a dance.