Words, spat out or treasured and adored,
All, nevertheless, spill out when the discontents of my life tip over into the conscious.
Words adorn this page as clothes adorn the psychotic, a bit misplaced, slightly jagged and with a bit too much consciousness.
There is only now. But the now is always on some level an accumulation of past nows and preparation for future ones.
Ever desiring to spiral upwards, the roots of structure search the deepest caverns of dripping darkness.
I need a muse to wrap my words around, to spring forth meaning from thoughts abandoned.
How then shall we battle against evil when we are in fact irrefutably evil while bound to this spacetime? That which transcends is that which can turn us to the ultimate victory or ultimate defeat. How can we face God if we have never experienced death?