Asleep, awake, awoken, and unearthed.

You say life: ignorant, illustrious, vivacious, and, above all, alive. I say elevation and a grand sense of self, inflated like a vapid, otherwise limp balloon in midair.

Too good or too bad, I cut the difference with a knife. I'm constantly cutting. Ties, ribbons, strings of red-knotted finger to finger. I know the thick before the slice.

I have wanted a vast and varying array of posies set to the fickle background of dandelions; beautiful, but everlasting weeds; roots implanted in the ground, stationary and resolute.

But I have seen mountains and I have seen rainbows. I have seen the fog rising from the ground as steam: blessed from a hurricane evacuation route to eruption. I want to see everything and nothing at all.

But words are words are words,
And an eternal blinking cursor is the same as a slack-jawed mouth;
O-shaped, gasping for air.

Fish against a reticent current, forever searching for their niche and the right to process their film wherever there is a darkroom present.