Perhaps there isn't a lot of sense to most of anything, especially myself-- other than what was randomly destined to be or not to be.

Upon us reigns a new year, a mechanism to propogate hope, I suppose, false or true or just maybe hopeful, we leverage ourselves against it and thrust or fall forwardly. Sometimes we just plummet.

I want to talk about love, vengenance, reconsiliation, happenstance and muse--- and I just have, so it is out of my system.

There is perhaps an innate delight in the temporal-- there is so much I can touch, yet not hold-- maybe even hold, but not keep, other than indelibility of event-- sometimes even legend, as Lupa would explain.

Blood rites are another dynamic yet to be resolved--- waffles and turtles and candle wax and leshful melodious wordage of unknown depths of soul and (Spike has left the building)-- too, are enigmas to the plexus (nexus, sexus-- why does Miller have to hang with me? He needsa a shower); --------

Allow me the space of reasoning and clarity-- it will come, I suppose-- it beckons- beacons- Bekins.

I remain firmly planted in the frenetic miasma.

I suppose I like it here.

This page hosted by  Get your own Free Home Page