Squinched eyes at the horizon which swallowed more cars and trucks and scooters in a cerise daze of crepuscule.
I recollect, even today, It was so fulminant and subtle, her proclamation. A procolamation about me, of my kind.
…And I’m speechless, no more a brand. I’m a old man, a fool, and silent.
I opt to be in solitude with my comport- self. Not a foolish anymore, no more violent.
Yes, I am lonely, and poor and I go through Sunday Night insomnia.
In formation of law of casuality, I live my code, my fear, and mania.
I am my own self, not a rebellion, not a pariah.
...world’s infelicitous remarks, their acrimony is a stigma upon Freya.
I is a wayfarer, in a life, a threatening malady…
…A God, I connote, must not forgive if it’s my infidelity.
Life is a thought experiment and I cannot conceive an idea pregnant with love’s measurable distortions…
For a loss is unjust, variable is agony, world is a mercenary enterprise, no sight of caution.
…There is no sight of Caution.
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