Tell me what it is, and I will find it. That is the promise of reason, the final say on location. Conductions and currents as alive as time. Change is the seeing of the system as a symptom. Change is all the acceptance of disease. That pin point realization that seeing is the wound, the sickness itself. That pointed waste of mirror.
The night dulls and deepens. The door hangs upon dust. The wind is high on its heels. That is the way of kisses. That is the longing that is always just awaked. The context, if only adjusted so. The tale that is always told out of school. Magic could do no more.
The cross makes us want that failing, the world gives us that as its weight. The balance of the division, the price of a need to lie. I take it as ice, I take it as water. The moments always answers, something to give this reason a little salt. Every direction all at once. A compass that, once spun, will never work again.
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