c

 These words I am compelled to write

are like a cling on to memory. I  know 

they are a human condition, its not un-

til I write them like a formula.A sham-

manic negabilty.

.

Counting the sylabls on my good one hand.

I dont know anything else, I had a life but

thats all gone so i c,ing on to nonsense.

Nietzsche and the will to power.

I belive we both had a stroke at 45, he

lived like I outside humanity he turns

my muck to gold.Ariadnes lament, stab

my pure heart.,

Morphic poe-artry Cynicism,dog-

rell honest. I have to live in sur-

realism even if I dont recall that

instance by the half-door. I wish

my words rang true.

All i have are words, of a moment

us moment a pomement dawing of

the day, a fox skulked out of the ditch I think ? Ihope

honest