I must acknowledge, perhaps, that the better haves, the ones in the base compartments of memory, yes, yes, where it is to be (uneasy, but confined, and convinced, at once that the glamorous and novel post of a dear friend, an ally, an absolute artist--one beyond comparison, for certainly, I confide, there is no greater companion in this, in this, this discovery of abandonment, hah!, you fool!)--again, I suppose, where it is to be, where it has been, often times, places, discarded, against what would be [description! dear lord, my lord, description!]. We have, alas and yet ever with great success and fortune, encountered, a location that will permit us entry into the world that is not this closet. Yes, yes. Yes, yes. Unless, we commit ourselves to such mortal sin that would encourage a sort, of (fuck you!) revolt, a rebellion of sorts, a soft removal (due! due! due!) due to the difference of opinion.

She is caught, oh god. And I, this troubled sour beast have taken the plunge into the world that is not mine, will not be mine, should not be mine.

AND made it once, and if there ever were a wheel, oh dear god, if there ever were the turn back into the grave that was that wheel, if there was, dear soul of mine, if there ever were a ground that did not demand its own sacrifice to unbecome itself--damn, damn--to unbecome itself, then, yes, that would be our beacon, our hope, our--

Fuck. It is his light. He is not so forgotten. I have it here, close to my chest, it is so dear to me that I could see like he does if only I could remember that I am only ever, yes, yes, only ever being taught [those are only assholes].

To see. Alas, I have no eyes.

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