This is becoming a real problem. Oh, how sure of you am I? The long term will supersede me in such wavering ways. Think this, this! This is my violent culmination. Such soft mornings take nothing away from me, in exponential bloom. In habitat, how would you program an android? And then, what would you expect? A civilized civilian salvation? Gone awry. Be nothing but an axiom for modern times. You, now, one last chance to not let me drown. I’ll wash up on the shore, shattered like the shells sticking to the bottom of your feet. I’ve been sad lately, because of what I could never forgive or resist was seen as a flaw manifesting itself. Contours in vain on the outset of wither; shredded wood held us in architecture. In the wake of waking and finding yourself a desolate isolate, you will, in fractals, leave but not resuscitate. Function, do you understand what I drew and what you’ve made? And now, you want to take it back. I wasn’t “selfish,” I was upset. “Sorry if I seem cold.” “You have no idea.” You have no idea. I, now, await you to devour the gale that pushed into my lungs when I was frail. Or was my failing in loving in falling in fictional planes? Every vector disassociates and forms a peak. Escaping velocities and coursing tangentals, functioning.


from A Composition Of Functions, released October 31, 2014



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