Bless us being indolent. Savage
in the gentlest way.
Lied to about who we may be.
Surrounded by "no bluer was he than I,"
I'd like to remain how I am.
I have no model for this, distracted
as I am by the minutiae of our
Illusion of fine senses.
Illness that devours.
Things that are slow become beautiful. I'm not
saying this to hurt you. You dreamed it.
In your waking. Time flew by.
In your waking life, time dreamed it.
So we could do that with our sentences now.
We could love them. The way they.