62: No account surmounts heaven where detachment is trimmed. Swimming there uproots the whole series, bright, tanned & then defined by sympathetic parody & indeed praise, contrary to less gracious remedies. 
 
We have functional emotions, I think, grounded by self-love & this choppy vocab of defined affects. There’s a hint of falsetto, too. Shields up. I’m painting the last place you feel true, here in my heart, shifting iniquity to self-inquiry, I read you.

Stay with me, never stop.