These words mask meaning like a crystal ball fakes futures; the hazy extract of purpose taking time and deliberation, likely providence of charlatans or the delusional. What lies beneath cloudy candor and convulsive colloquy? Connection? Contrivance? Character? Such slip-shod servitude to an alleged muse, it’s slung muck, equal parts cowardice to say what needs to be said and comeuppance because this is as good as it gets; the half awake verbal spill of a mind gone sideways, loose in the channels of feeling like a gondola caught in Venician tsunami. Those brash wordwaters flash then crash, pulling back to the sea of understanding all potential for such delicate craft because this isn’t deft or delicate, it’s a smash of overbearing vocabulary and whimsical inspiration – a dash of loose metaphor hanging like a cracked neck from a noose drawn taut by love, lust, loss. The flood of time cannot be dammed by cataract eyes and mystical omniscience any more than this fierce compromise of ability can be anything but damned. If we do or if we don’t makes little difference. Divination holds no keys to unlock tomorrow and derivation is the sin of the artist, both met with derision in their clamor for the future; predictions and assertions like the echo of a slap fade, fade, fading even as the sting of their imprudence long lingers. It’s not what’s said that matters, or even how it’s said, but the sum of opinion that’s a mountain among sand dunes; resilient while time’s tides wash away intention.
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