i cannot but be dishonest.
the written word demands a structure, yet i think in epiphanies and without logic. i long to record every thought i have, yet i cannot formulate a syntax that does justice to such a distant strange soul. the spoken word demands an immediate honesty that my lips cannot phrase. the song needs a melody, but it would be crude to search for it and if i were to find it, what then? a definition of my affection as permanent as the darkness in which i love to write? a naming of parts?
to me now, all the art and all the design in the world are worth nothing to walking by the rising river on a wild, weathered noon with you.
