the purpose of a simple man is to tend to their ego at any point in time, in any way,
however much they can afford to
with what they cup in their hands.
shiny rubies, mostly poetries that aren't penned by poets, the eye of a hurricane.
in ineptitude was rothko's false art born.
abstract/intangibility//act of god.
of the essence of things, nothingness should imply the existence of something; ergo
the lacunae is malleable.
i cup in my hands, smithereens, but my hands are soft.
my early-march lucid dream i was watching mondrian painting his lines for me to bleed
in his borders.
kept trying to construct a coherent interpretation without considering what
part i play in context.
i was 17 in tableau i,
i did not need to be tender to anyone else's inadequacy but i did.
what was absent should not be a shadow of what could, yet in my headspace,
kindness is innate.
sustenance for a strange fiend, one as tall as babel, he will
please himself even out of nothingness.
to take cognizance of the art, you must understand:
[...you get from it what you bring to it. it will meet you half way but no further.
it is alive if you are. it represents something and so do you.]
