"You ain't saying nothing that I don't already know."

Their faces were like lemon-drops and their eyes watered readily/reality. (Pretty girls make me blush.) I need some kind of structure; some kind of BELIEF. (It's like a kid on a cellphone! It drops things, and bends extravagantly over to collect them again.) This sharpness is in bad taste, I think.

It's the one thing you can't think about, be assured. How fragmented you must be! What sort of alternative would I prefer? Were it that you were here, with the face that you wear--open and full in front of me...then you wouldn't see me with eyes this foggy? My mood wouldn't drip tangibly and rich-viscous with wake. If you were here? You wouldn't know me at all.

Ah, but this doesn't save me from wanting you. I want to taste the flavor your eyes choose for ignorance! I want to listen to you telling me somethingsomething, your voice fluttering on and on in its brevity. What would you look like? Sitting here, with nothing but me for a distraction? I want to count your yawns; follow your drifting glance. Almost, I want you here without me.

[Don't put it past yourself to be here now. Your desires entail your presence. Yes. Practice, then, not abandoning yourself (while you still can see that you are).]