In demystifying the validity of the exorbitance of empty space we set souls less fortunate up for suicide. But here in our fortune we can understand the vast filler. The buffer between blood and air called culture. The taming motion. The lulling to sleep. Seamless as dreamless nights. Dripping with the thought that there will be a moment of anticipation worse then moments spent anticipating. It is the mere existence of fact that denies the valid. The rarefied belief in the march away. To the climax of existence. Existing in the valid is a waste. The persistence of belief. The stain of reality plastered to my retina each morning as I open my eyes. The failure to see beyond. Weighing hard on my soul. Not just yearning for moments of brief breakthrough but for a whole life lived there. Present in the present. If we forget the past then hopefully the future it created will forget us. Let us alone. Scurrying silently in the shadows of the night. The world of walkabouts on macadam. Dandy in our informality. Toughness over style. A violent society best expressed in a sneer, but found in many forms at the base of it all. Its enough to lose faith and just be entranced by the baubles. I see happy. I see whatever they need me to feel. Lately though all I feel is whatever they needed me to see. Needs are not like visions. Visions need. Needs do not have vision.
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