My mind is a deep and eager burial ground. My mind is a stage.
You appeared in the spotlight last night
slightly to the left.
Immediately I tried to sweep you back to earth as I have done before,
many times to many things,
but I was stubbed.
“Hey…” you said, sadly indignant.
It had been a while.
You looked dead and cold,
dirt in your clothing and hair.
I’d torn a wet chunk of clay out of your shoulder.
I pushed again but you remained,
a glow of foreign energy in your existence.
My eyes opened and stared at my phone.
I felt you leaning on the far side of a high wall
Thinking
remembering
projecting
perhaps hoping
for a crack to appear.
I thought the time and distance and remembered
the milk and honey and hoped
a swift flash of hope
for a way
Then,
“It won’t be me,” I thought
for I had struck the possibility from the device.
I stuck my phone back in my pocket
and soon shook you back into your echoey grave.
Talent hits a target no one else can hit; Genius hits a target no one else can see.
—
Arthur Schopenhauer
I think nymphomania is a relative condition.
It can’t be a side project. It has to be something that captures me. Something that stimulates and invigorates an obsession. Something that that
“I’ve probably hear people say, ‘But if you were really crazy, you wouldn’t know you were crazy!’ more times than anyone else you know,” he said. Then he scratched his head for a long time.
With growing horror he stared at the clock, the realization that he was thinking less than one thought per second seeping through his mind.
A man always seems wisest against flaws he has.
If I wasn’t lonely I could fly.
NIGHTNIGHT by DEDDY
