Stillborn Selves

 

Within this puny flesh, there live sentient pieces of aborted selves that are at constant conflagration with one another aspiring to steal the limelight of consciousness: a poet, a mechanic, a philosopher, a sociologist, a psychologist, a cultural critic, an artist, a chef, a writer, a filmmaker, a film critic, a cinematographer, a philologist, a linguist, a historian, and an orator, densely condensed into an unwitting flesh and of frail spirit that I call 'I'.

These morsels of half-born selves that failed to realize in the 'actual' all revile against the oppressing backdrop of the body and mind they chose to inhabit --- a frustrated universe experiencing itself through the eyes of a frail boy, hallucinating in the finite, and dreaming of a thousand lost possibilities cast into the irretrievable ocean of time. Woe to the lot of men, of missed possibilities of being!

And now I hear only the scintillating voices of the damned souls forever lost in the torrential waves of potentiality, forever a phantom amid my exultation.

Oh, how I long for these stillborn selves lost in the void of time! 

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Notes of Soliloquy

 

     I cannot remember the last time I wrote to you, it must've been ages since our last correspondence. Forgive me for having done so, believe me when I say that it has always been a great priority of mine to write at the earliest convenience, but still, I chose to refrain from writing anything that has nothing of substance and form for I know better than be a nuisance on your part.

     Once, I tried to write something that might be of significance to you, but scarcely had I lift my stylus above this creamy sheet of paper, that my mind, over some unfathomable panic and anxiety, had censored every noteworthy thought to occur --- thoughts that are dignified enough to write unto you.

      If you would dare ask why must this be so, I can only tell you that I've not the faintest clue what has become of me. I can only hope to say that perhaps this is one of the many aftereffects that my nauseating fits of melancholy could produce apart from a debilitating sense of dejection. Frankly, I've not felt so intense an exultation in a long while now save for a few occasions that I ought to feign in front of a scrutinizing crowd. This had since atrophied at a staggering pace that at a moment's notice, every other form of sweet delicacies that were supposed to uplift my spirit are now nothing but a stale mold of cacao mixed with butter, wrapped around an outlandishly designed plastic container. Not even my moments of pondering are exempted from this sickness assaulting my senses, for, at every turn, my sophisticated cynicism has quite sharpened its claws that I can no longer discriminate any act of kindness as genuine other than no more than an act of will to power over one's fellow. It is a great burden of mine, indeed.

      But thus as it is, I implore you still to withhold from making value judgments and or take pity on this complicated predicament of mine, for it is in no way beneficial to my finding a resolve befitting to this ordeal. Be very cautious of harboring a modicum of pity, it is never likely commensurate to genuine altruism. You would do well than bid me well wishes upon this harrowing time of my journey.

     On a lighter note, today marks my 21st birthday, and to be frank, I've not any inkling of what to do with myself ---- Indeed, I am none the wiser than I already am. 

  In this period of great silence and lethargy, I've not forgotten about you. For now, that is all that I have worth saying.

All the best I wish to you.

                                                                                                        Truly, K.

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Masterstroke

 

Casually languishing about this limbo of which I am the sole master and maker; treading lightly and carefully so as to not singe my soul from the fires of my undoing. For what it's worth, a masterstroke is not born from the comforts of heaven but from the gates of hell.

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VII

 

Might I say that I do find you too lovely a woman to have walked upon this land of trolls and thieves?

Dare I cross paths with you when I have only defiled the cavities of this land?

Should these scheming lips brim of candor?

Should these eyes be all over you?

Or should I simply resign quietly into the night?

Alas! Not even the redeeming touch of your hand could ever wash the soot in my arms! Woe is me, I lay in agony!

But lend me an ear, and I shall lull you with words such that deep in your slumber you will have dreamt of how the contours of my prose defined the lovely shape of your bones.

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"Where are the apologists?"

 

      At the very onset of the election period, everyone fancied themselves to be a political analyst par excellence: somewhat along the lines of a seasoned thinker whose range spans the spectrum of nuanced political philosophy. They were more than willing to die and barter their soul to the devil such that all their moral integrity would blur and fluctuate periodically for the sake of their chosen political candidate, who, they believed, would follow the dictums of the brand of politics Duterte had initiated, they would go as far as willingly commodify and subject themselves to abject humiliation by invading every political forum and social media outlets with unrelenting and daft polemics against their respective common enemy; black propagandas abound, incessant subversion of traditionally held and empirical-based truths, uncouth political dissents, and call for the abolishment of intellectualism in lieu of the more sublime quality of philistinism to comfort the qualms of ignorant voters. Ironically though, three months later, everyone somehow forgot everything that had since occurred, for even the most neurotic imbeciles that littered the web wasn't that much concerned about how things will go from here on out since majority of them had no inkling of the political, economic, and societal schematics of how their candidate would govern this country, save for a few braindead political sophistry (e.g., "fix this or that," "do this or that," "Unity this and that," and the like), I do not think the newly elected President has any idea what he is doing most of the time other than attending lavish birthday bashes that which he knows he does best. He is a great comic relief in our political landscape, and the ultimate definition of a jest consolidating power in the guise of a populist leader --- by precisely manipulating the audience with prejudices and the proclivity of the Filipinos for nostalgia (and the general idiocy saturating the air), he will always come across as an effective political leader; for how can one know what he is doing when the general public is too oblivious to notice? 

     Makes me wonder that from a broadly phenomenological lens, Philippine politics was not so much a means to materialize a paragon of a well-governed state (that which is controlled by well-informed and politically versed Filipinos with the capacity to deconstruct the political landscape and the power relations that underlies its genesis), but rather merely an abasement into a mere barangay/ purok contest of who can present the most absurdly comical figure -- or in this case, a demagogue --- for the voyeuristic pleasure of the viewers, and then pit them one after the other to arbitrate who elicited the most resounding applause or heckling amongst the largely daft audience. As such, one must only reconsider if we are in dire need of ratifying a proto-militaristic law that attempts to pass off as a self-evident solution to a problem that is intrinsically a pedagogical one. Perhaps, it is well-nigh for an intellectual revolution of the mass --- to strengthen and reform the failure of the current educational system that promotes an environment of docility and complacency of so-called established "truths" rather than question and challenge its assumptions to keep the spirit of dialect alive. After all, discipline is an amalgam of knowledge and wisdom. Nonetheless, we sober citizens mustn't let our guards down amidst the tide of hysterical fanatics lambasting our legitimate misgivings to keep our leaders in line with that of the need of the people. 

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Glare

Dark were the shades of your eyes that would leave my spirit in a perpetual quandary as I strive to find an exit from its damning allure.

Pale was the color of your skin, as radiant, and as white as the harrowing snow of an intense blizzard ravaging these long winter nights.

Silk was the composite of your hair, inextricably fine under the tint of the sun, refined and complemented by your all too lucent visage, juxtaposed by your fancy for manly garb for a woman of such pristine glamour.

Had you lend this poor old heart adequate time, I would've shown you that I am not one to conquer your land, nay a brute of some sort that had since terrorized your faith, for in matters concerning your heart--- callous though it may be--- I would've diligently plow through it, ad infinitum, until I earn my way to you. Charz

Thus as it is, I cannot will myself to look at you, for you are more than closer to the ethereal imagoes in my dreams than I am to the figures of your nightmare.

 

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Apotheosis Of Despair

    We who lie awake until the early hours of dawn, dead, and at once wary of the morrow, lethargic from the gushing forth of incessant and despotic thoughts abuzz our sensitive ears, yearning to resign freely as one would to a lost cause; where do we run when these infernal nightmares run abound within our heads --- ticking, turning, writhing in agony as we turn our backs to sleep?

     Oh, what foolish incantations and antiquated prayers shall set us free from this baptism of fire: when in dungeons, in prisons, in wastelands, and decrepit dwellings are we sanctified? Who shall then bear us through with the harlots and witches of the night, when we are all but detached and apart? Oh I know, I know, that no man has ever escaped here unscathed, unfazed and free, for tonight, and many nights still to come, we are lonely.

    Abandon all hope ye who enter, for every man shall endure himself the gruel torture of imagined hell.

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Disquietude of Love: The Beauty of Punch-Drunk Love

     Punch-Drunk Love (2002) is thus far the underrated gem of Paul Thomas Anderson's entire filmography. It is an ode to the anxiety-inducing feeling of being under the grips of romantic love, as well as a phenomenological deconstruction of emotional vulnerability as a core strength in an altogether foreign territory known simply as love.

        The masterful crafting of cinematography, soundscape, visual design, and the compelling acting of Adam Sandler (prior to his leading role in Uncut Gems) gives off a freakishly dreamy world of insanity that is at the heart of falling in love and wanting to be loved: a kind of admixture of euphoria and sublime . Unlike most contemporary romantic series and films, Punch-Drunk Love aimed to overcome the clichés surrounding the popular literature of romance--- that it is no more than simply a "magical" phenomenon characterizing kisses and hugs of varying intensity. Anderson, instead, chose to abolish this mysticism through the manifestation of Barry Egan (Adam Sandler), a reclusive salesman; whose timidity and shyness become antagonistic to his desire to form an emotional bond with this mysterious woman that came crashing through his remote and formidable fortress.

    For Egan, as much as it is for P.T. Anderson, romantic love can be a terrifying venture into the uncanny valley: the eventful dissolution of emotional boundaries, the making of oneself emotionally vulnerable, the dreadful feeling of having to say things that we would otherwise be ashamed to even think out loud, the fear of having fervent sentiments of attachment knowing its detrimental consequence, the unknowable depth of our beloved, and least of all, the hassle of having let ourselves be known to the beloved can make the best of us cower into isolation as we conquer our fear of being love for all our idiosyncrasy and social awkwardness.

    Indeed, it is a frightening journey marked with anxiety and ill-health as modern romantic dramas tend to omit, yet, for Anderson, he saw it as a sorrowful and painstaking process of dialect between two people but can be especially rewarding to anyone willing to take a major risk, because, in spite of the barriers that need be endured and bested, it is also an intensely giddy feeling that is intoxicating to the senses as one becomes familiar to the scenery of the unwitting colliding of individuals from thousands of light-years away making room for a union of a lifetime, tolerating the disparity of disposition and ambiguity of one another to promote the flourishing of love, as well as witnessing the liberal untangling of one's loneliness as we find security in the bosom of our lovers as they merge with our idyllic existence.

    Anderson made us believe that in romantic affairs, we can't always be rational. We will always be a little tipsy, fragile, wreckless, petrified, anxious, and irrational no matter how seasoned and well-groomed we have become.. in brief, we are always punch-drunk when it comes to love. After all, as Friedrich Nietzsche would remind us, 'that which is done out of love is beyond good and evil.'

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Blog # 27: Futility

         Days keep on flowing like an endless stream. Every day seems like yesterday. I cannot delineate what I feel anymore: my sensibilities are dull and numb as days go by without my having falling ill. You are perhaps the only recourse that keeps me sane from these lonely nights and the only music that resonates against the backdrop of the night sky.

       Where are am I going from here? I cannot find any person with which I  share daydreams and esoteric ruminations with. Indeed, there is a part of mine that chronically aches having been aloof from the rest of humanity that would not dare spare a minute of valuable time for a meaningful confabulation. 

     I am weary of the superficiality that saturates the air and the toxicity of masculinity that inhibits men of my sensitivity to be heard as humanly possible.

   The disparity between talking to a wall and a human being seems to me all the more strenuous as it collapses in of itself--- it's all the same to me now. 

    To whither are we moving? What divine miracle should save us from tearing this land down to its last atom? What use are words if it be taken so lightly by the common man? 

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Blog # 26: A place in your world

 

    You know, I would love to be a part of your coveted world of which you are the sole proprietor and magistrate; a kingdom that yields to no one but at peace with everyone. For a long while, many have sought to conquer this land of yours, but none had succeeded. But as opposed to them, I've no intention of laying siege to your kingdom; I came here in peace to earn a place in your heart with nothing but with these bare hands.

I couldn't care more if you've not any urge to spare me of your precious time or attention, for I will have long since begun the toil you've not asked of me --- that is, adore you.

        Dearest, it is no small feat to gain leverage within that barbaric heart of yours that could tear any empty and fancy rhetoric of typical men, but I would have you known that such impediments are of little significance to a man of my obtuseness! I long for you! How is this any lesser than your will? I've mine too. Let me dazzle in the fire of your love if need be:

Let me coddle and cosset you in the harshest of your winter that not the slightest whiff of air will escape from my clutch:

I'll sew the seams of your chafing heart from all that you've sustained from this world;

I'll iron the wrinkles of your past without judgments nor condescension; and not a day will pass without your having known that you are no less than stardust and, I, a humble mortal allured only by your splendor.

I have only in my capacity to dedicate it wholly to you without pride and regret.

One of these days, I will take you strolling in these streets in the cold summer's eve and boldly stare at you blankly while you tell me the best of your days.

My dear, I know not anything other than this,

other than knowing you,

other than longing for you,

other than being with you,

other than to cherish you.

        In a word, I love you.

I love you for your anxieties, worries, doubts, pride, arrogance, compassion, humility, stupidity, ingenuity, boorishness, congeniality, irony, decisiveness, and perplexity.

Wherever your shadow and light may lie, rest assured that all of my unwavering love accompanies you. 

For my beloved, in your life, I've seen all there is to see and everything that has lived and will eternally live. 

And as Neruda as my witness, 

'I love you as certain dark things are to be loved, in secret, between the shadow and the soul'

You are the most spectacular woman I've ever had the honor of capably loving, and as I remain veneered by the edifice across the street while you hold his hands... I knew that I have loved you with all that might entail: even if it were to break my heart. 

                                                                  

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Blog # 25: Sanctuary

 

        May every flower I bestow upon thee be no less than ethereal as the celestial ashes that aimlessly wanders the heavens above, and with every cosmic beat, I listen intently and earnestly to hear the rhythm of your soul intertwined with mine.

        May this be our sanctum, my beloved, our sacred covenant: a place to assuage your every crippling fear with my incompetent prose that fondles and lull your delicate cheeks, nose, eyes, hair, and lips till they fall fast asleep in my loving arms.

       May I linger far deeper into the recesses of your heart that even in the loneliest of night and day, you'd recollect how a lowly man of a humble origin loved you as though there was nothing before and after you.

        Darling, with a sickly pounding of my heart, I adorn you with a crown that is made from the ruins of what is left of my heart and soul.

                         Yours Eternally, K.C

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Blog # 24: The Heights of Despair

 

    Bleak. A concise summation of my concurrent sentiments. Life appears to be a bitter pint of spirit that no amount of satiety would ever console a dreary soul. Days on end, I find no reasonable clause for which to hinge our existence within this Spatio-temporal realm of senseless strife coupled with unflagging hopes for tomorrow to be more promising than yesterday. And for what? To what end shall this nightmare be on repeat? Every road leads to nowhere and all crossroads to despair. I feel as though there is no teleological nor theological explanation for us to be here, other than being a botched algorithm. It does not help either that the emergence of consciousness that aided us in conceiving ourselves as floating on a rock in a vast and unforgiving space with the capacity to experience contingency that brought about despair. 

        And this is a cause for nausea, for the reason being that we are perhaps a byproduct of a cosmic mishap; a race of sentient beings fearful of living under the auspices of a capricious world, that over time we’ve concocted ourselves a way to ascertain a possibility of certainty through the postulates of reason and logic. Consequently, confused and downtrodden, the modern man, in his quest for wholeness and unity, contracts neuroses of kinds that even those of an indomitable resolve flounders into the abyss. And yet, unfortunately, we are no more than sooner in finding a solution to our insatiable thirst for answers in the demeaning nature of “why?”

       Lately, I have found myself asking more questions than they warrant in my limited reasoning to no avail of much-needed resolution. The need to rid me off of the tirade of senseless probing within remote truths becomes a pastime that I take more often to rid myself of myself. Nonetheless, dread would soon find a creative way to insert itself as a dynamic force to reckon with --- a restless unconscious mumbling of the mind amidst the infinite quietude of space. From the heights of despair, everything is a monochromatic shade -- there is no refuge of any kind; what was once exciting to the senses loses itself from the tempest of agony and degrades over the fires of perdition. Every victory is virtually overshadowed by intense feelings of shame and guilt exacerbated by a lack of abled companions to console my anguish. 

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Blog # 23: Our Land

      Was I too wrong when I plucked those flowers prematurely from their unfettered roots? Perhaps quite so. But it wasn't out of sheer malice, rather it was out of heartfelt admiration that I found befitting as a gift to a woman of your caliber --- a reputable and gracious damsel quite versed in despair.
    Regardless, maybe these days I won't have to irresponsibly yank one out here and there to profess my fondness for you; because by then, I'd plant one myself for your eyes to see how I'd groom it each day to make them bloom for you, my dear. I'd make it my life's worth that it be given the finest of care: I'd water it, trim it, fertilize it, and make it thrive long enough to witness the love I've kept so dearly in my veins flourish, like a sprouting seed of a mighty oak. And I wish for you to bear witness my darling, that my ultimate desire is to secure every right and privilege to hold your hand, and more so earn your faith in matters concerning your heart.

  I'd like for you to know that I have every intention of cultivating and fostering whatever piece of land you allocate for me in your heart, rest assured you will never unearth it barren of fruits, flowers, and crops from the labor of my love. 

                                                       Yours, K.C

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Blog # 22: Of Sense and Sensibility

 

    Between the two of us, you're the one most likely to endure a series of slights than raise your eyebrow over indignation, lest you risk losing your peers' favor. You do know that you can't win them all, right? And surely you don't expect them to comprehend your anger when you have tacitly agreed to do their bidding without having first expressed your sentiments on the matter, right? You claim your freedom as readily as when you first found it, yet rarely does it ever come to light when you're on the verge of judgment that has anything to do with losing your reputation, as being that "kind and humble woman". If you're angry then blurt it out of your chest, don't play coy as though it doesn't affect your sensibilities!

     Aggressors, exploiters, and sycophants will only capitalize on your fear of social rejection to make you kneel on their whim. You see, it doesn't make you any less of a human to voice out your opinion when they infringe your right as a being, any more than they have the right to invoke theirs. The trouble, as it seems to me, is that you are more inclined to feign indifference when in truth you no longer could bear it...

    If there is one thing I've learned from that of the seasoned existentialists in our understanding of human freedom is that, we have always within our grasp to choose for ourselves the creation of our masterstrokes: a life lived out in authenticity and harmony with our internal principles without regard for disdain, and to borrow from Kierkegaard, "an idea for which we could live and die for."

    Have you not wondered why I chose you? What I'm doing is not a matter of reciprocation of your love in that I do not give a damn whether you repel my advances, for it is solely my decision that I bathe you with my exuberant affection-- " I am fond of you" not because you are fond of me and anything beyond or beneath it, instead, it should be taken as it is -- a choice, that is, a voluntary action with which my initiatives and ambition threads on.

    Know that I love you, but sometimes I have the impression that you're too good for your own sake. If I could slap you right now so that you could man up and do what's best for you, then I would. Now, if you truly felt oppressed and abused by these individuals as you claim them to be, then say it as you would to yourself as calmly and reasonably as you can. Tell them how you feel, and that you are not gonna want to comply any time sooner simply because you don't want to. This is a subject of seeming and being, what would you choose? How would you like your life to be?

Forgive my unsolicited advice, do take care, my beloved.

                               

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Blog # 21: Preachers

 

   Have you any idea of the dogma that spews out of your mind? When one presents oneself as an apostate of absolute moral truths, I find it unfortunate that he has had not an inkling of doubt as to whether or not his zealousness is founded upon a sturdy proposition. You see, when we speak of "truth" (i.e., objective truth) we must first probe the narrow confines of our concurrent knowledge of things and the social construct at large to arrive at an "objective truth," yet I find it very unlikely that you have any notion of the truths that which you so wish to instill by your incessant moralizing and nagging; you cannot claim for yourself that you are an adherent of an ultimate truth if not at once you have not doubted their veracity. Moreover, I have the impression that what you profess to be universal truths are merely nitpicked maxims, phrases, and verses relayed handily upon you by religious leaders, who capitalized on your psychological longing for wholeness and serenity without your being aware of its implication.

      If you cannot relinquish your desire of knowing the truth, then might I suggest that you study the scriptures in-depth? And when I say depth, I meant to say that you utilize an array of deductive methods at hand (e.g., semantics, hermeneutics, anthropology, philosophy, metaphysics, ontology, epistemology, logic, theology, psychology, linguistics, etc.) and not solely on the anecdotes and accounts of the pastors or priest, whose words you take as a litany of Christ himself. Besides, the bible is a contentious volume of symbolical and metaphorical expressions that its interpretation requires a collection of various know-hows of academic and esoteric disciplines that would compel you to expend multiple hours of reading and writing before truly your opinions are of worth to the religious discourse itself -- a task that only those of the seasoned theologians can accomplish.

    My dear friend, the truth cannot simply set you free without first comprehending the nature of truth itself within the limits of human reasoning. The history of ideas tells us time and time again, that those who assert that they have seen and known everything has already proven themselves to have known nothing.

     And as for your pity to our souls, might I ask the state of yours? Perhaps I should also add that you inquire within yourself, in solitude, how much do you precisely know about that which you speak and proselytize? What truth are you preaching? Is it truth for truth's sake or an unconscious need to compensate for a deeply seated inferiority complex?

For I know that faith without reason is blind, and reason without faith is deaf.

   I am sorry if I have made an offense against your sensibilities; and so I express my humble apologies without reserve.

                                          Yours truly, K.C.

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Blog # 20: Puzzles and Pieces

 

    I liken you to a difficult puzzle to piece, though the instructions lay bare on your cheeks --- I remain dumbfounded as to why the way you chose to be what you are. Baffled though I was, I remain subjugated by an unforeseeable impetus that leads me right back to you. Perhaps, it is my vocation to devote entirely my life for you: it is, I think, quite intrapsychic in nature that has yet to find its resolution in you, that only in your arms alone will I ever find the answer. This, I think, is a dilemma that you will never understand nor comprehend.
You see, I've kept you so close into my heart that a seemingly innocuous shove could mean my demise, and despite this, you still are asleep, aren't you? Every single step I take is two steps backward and sidewards for you; you thither here and there to create the illusion of being everywhere yet nowhere, for what? Have I not said what your heart desires that I utter?
Should I wake you up with all the words that I still haven't said? Or should I caress you with tender touches, just to show you how it feels? Maybe I should act so cool like it is no big deal? But what can I say? I am truly, madly, deeply, and foolishly completely smitten with you. My beloved, I take refuge in your bosom, will you allow me? What a fool's game, indeed, for in puzzles and pieces, the only victor is you.

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BLOG #19: Questions of Being

 

     At times, I feel as though I have not existed prior to this immediate moment. Often enough, when my despair reaches its paroxysm, I dissimulate myself from the  person I was yesterday or yesteryear that everyone thought I was --- or at least I thought I am. My past is seamlessly skidding down into a dreamlike state of reverent musings, where there is no particular order binding it to my ego, that is, the I. It's as if the instances of passionate memories I've accrued over a lifetime, were only a product of simulation feigned by an omnipotent being that has no regard for the lot of men. Consequentially, this has often severely impeded my belief in my own  existence as I incrementally become forgetful of my own being -- I am left asking If I am not me, then who am I? Am I any more unique than that inanimate rock over there? Or that mighty tree over there? Is my existence then only a possibility for contingency, that any attempts at personal reform is no more than a farce as much as it is a means to live authentically? 

     For a while, when my mind loiters about in the sea of nauseous existential drama, I cease to be. And in those odd moments, I forget about you --- and what it felt like to stare blankly at your soul whilst losing myself within those dark eyes, pale complexion, chapped lips, swell hair, and petite bearing. 

    Honey, you're all that makes these street lights a spectacle at night, you're all that makes it worthwhile to walk in ungodly hours. And with a stubborn hope in my heart, I look for your silhouettes in these empty coffee shops barren of your grandeur. I yearn only that you let me traverse the infinite depth of your heart and mind, and without reservations, I shall eternally adore you 'between the shadow and the soul' within this convoluted world of mine.  

Let the questions of existence chafe into oblivion, but to live without having known you is a step closer to perdition.  

                                                                                                 

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BLOG # 18: Longing for you

 

    Why is it that my heart longs only for your soul? Tis' as if my hands were made to caress the lines on your cheeks and hold you tightly as we stride gleefully into the sunkissed beach. I'll remind you of the bliss I felt staring at those codeine eyes: a warm embrace that felt like home --- never lonely and alone. 

      I find it unbearable that your presence takes manifest in the night, while I lie awake weeping for your absence in these ungodly lights; no days bleaker when you left, no sorrow greater than when we last met.

     Darling, I'll keep your name hidden wherever fate might lead me to, I'll whisper your name in the deepest of my slumber, and I'll envelop you with the songs that spelled your complexion --- and love you when all else fails you. 

  And when the soles of your feet are tired from the rigors of your toil, I'll carry you close into the zeal of my arms that hopelessly fell for you. I'll hold you when your blue and cheer you through.

  I shall let it be known with my words that you and you alone will the contours of my prose ever take place. But when my words fail you at the moment of your dire need, in silence then we shall speak. 

  If this love is too great a vice, then my beloved, let me wallow in the virtue of your love.

                                                     

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