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[danger is a delicate thing--- formless & spineless] Utopia:
loss of love of care of doubt of knowledge of being there-
loss of hate of guilt of sadness of all whatifs that could be better.
hair gently rises / gently stands on end / natural electricity
(apathy) whisper to me now, tell me things can still be fixed,
that nothing's without hope.
___lie to me with your specifics (taught by sanity, maintained 
by the opposite) lulled to sleep by dripping words that just won't 
stop, saying important things to me in a language i'm not
familiar with. i tried to reach & catch each sound, yet my hands
being weak & small, couldn't keep hold; in the wind of your breath
i was so confused, i was so cold.
i felt pain once, & once again, & somehow i grew to like it. with
pleasure, it's always the same warmth & comfort of being the
perfect fit for this perfectperfect world. but in suffering, each
affliction is its own bruise. each breaking of the body is
another distinguishing mark on the soul. 
the passage of time is seen through relinquishments. in the beginning
there is all, there is an entity in its whole, alive & pulsating, naked &
reeking of satiety. yet with each heavy step, a sort of shattering
happens, a small crack that leads to another. pieces get lost.
[breathe in, chew up this world & swallow, like it tastes delicious.]

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