Once you hear it all, once you dream past or burn through
the techniques, the torture, those emotional blizzards
of heartbreak, the great guided guttural pain and
their responses, they are merely barren, simply vacant. Simply put: a desert
of want. And the response is to always have a spare, or a back-up, and to bear any heat
as to keep it running over, running under, and running across
the page, and the mind. Who’s to say at least you and got yours? Please. All torrents
would tell you otherwise. A flood is more than a flood; it is a pouring through,
past what is natural, past baselines, fallacies and logic. It is a narrow
belief of boundaries and delicacies. These imaginary lines you draw get you started;
everything else just passes.