Sometimes
I get this hollowed sense of madness. I have these pathetically futile
whiffs of existence called feelings, and I know what they are and I want
to do something sentimental with them, but I cannot. I can't put a
frame around them, I can't collect them in a clear glass jar and I can't
fold them into asian avian trinkets. They are not pretty, they are not
decorative. They are frighteningly real and grotesque, and there is only
your heart wrestling with them. A bloody and bloodied muscle against
ancient, universal demons - what are the odds to battling this day after
day.
