Dying Ends
By Neurosine
Couldn't say. Doesn't matter anyway. As long as I'm happy, or something like unconcerned, unburned, unturned, into an asshole. Aligned with everything, can say nothing about it, unexplainable anyway, where...where is the day? I sense this lucid vision, consisting of such a seeming high caliber, of perfect understanding, yet I can not reach it, not quite, but my hand's not far away, I believe, I decieve, so that I may reach... just a little farther, into the abyss, into the ocean, into the atmosphere, unplumbed depths of the mind, left behind, transcending this foolish mortal coil. I so love Sylvia Plath. A lovely psychopath. Well aware. Naked...and willing to share. We're embaressed for these people. Unless we become one of them. Unafraid, unpretend. Without all the timeless boundries of mind Without end. Written February 24th, 2002 © on Feb 24 2002 12:40 PM PST, Neurosine 0 • 10
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"Couldn't say...."