June 24th, 2013

I read the poem he wrote about how my aggressive screaming can be hushed down to where it sounds much like a match strike. The flame can be blown out even by an asthmatic child. I was supposed to get something out of it, but all I could focus on was how it felt like a betrayal to write in a child in words meant to describe a nature he found maddening. He knew, should remember, can respect that I never wanted children. I focus on what I want, not what someone desperately wants me to see. And what the hell is his name, because things like that are important to tattoo on a brain cell that never dies off.

In one of those little dreams that are more fascinating than anything reality has to offer, I met a man from the deep South who learned how to play the harpsichord from a French nobleman. He said he once chose to be a squire for an angry knight, back when there were so many causes to pick up, one would never suffer from a shortage of purpose. We talked until the hunger ate away at our stomachs. And when I finally woke up, I felt cheated and cheap. I give away my feelings to those that say such pretty things, even when I have made the person up completely.

It is the siren’s time to sing. I hear her as clearly as I ever did. The whale moves fast and steady as the most trustworthy and exact record keeper. The book has many things to teach. Read it well and remember how every phrase shaped your beliefs.

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June 24th, 2013

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