And nothing should make you this way. Now you can feel the great stone rolling back from the tomb with the lightest touch of sweet white magic and the world is open and the shadows on the wall mere reflections of this realization. Allegory and myth, truth and faith, right where you left them.and now the new familiar feeling of money in your back pocket and not everything is okay, because there are always doubts, and you can always feel the towering weight of your wrongs but never the rights. But I needed the time to write, and write I did, all of these things here, flashes on a moonless night and even most of this, now, in the time those chronic cases' souls sold me. Now/ writing ahead of living,/ only so I can/ go back to write from the past,/ in strange circuitous paths,/ I’m led by inspiration.

So who do I call to tell them I’m a genius?, it doesn’t matter, but SOMEBODY’S got to read this, still I continue to scare myself shitless. My brilliance has not been exceeded by anything in my character, yet, None of it is nothing, I know now what I’m not. I’m tired sometimes lazy and happy to be loved and not respected, the movies have stopped running lines now through my head and bizarrely I’ve found I no longer feel guilty about being alive, or feeling so big when my shadow is directly beneath me, or about not really caring who else the women I will or have or do love love or have loved or will love because I finally realized that I’ve always loved each of them too, and I want to hold hands with all my love’s lovers throughout the night. Jealousy’s still lurking in deep creases not yet unfolded but the arms of time swing cyclically and all us little snarls will be wound calmly out, waiting our turns, and one day I’ll fully believe in myself, and all the old twitching will be gone and I can feel all this rising and my chest not my head swelling.