I’m not a failure sometimes.

Freedom is that personal.. night after the super moon — diodes in crimson, a soft spot for a shine of success, the beach magnified, ironically revived!

Who owns outside under socialism?

You sit in the outdoor room to dwell on differences, crispnesses in whispers in air.
Your sleep is like a process language.
Your daydreaming is languidly pensive. It’s coming back, back... no..

no to workdays of glyphic turmoil ground into torpid incision, no to prophase. No!

No contusion of the supremacist spheres.

You’re saying no to virulent, callow stances and off key covers and grim ball-bearings.

But seismic colors are a yes. No loss of brilliance but haunted respite.