The Ever Real World

The physicality of you watching me rattle my keys in your dream watching you, in a fever, the feels bubble up inside the mourning zombie summons an evening ghost which keys to be singled out to open which cavity slid into that which is locked magically dissolving all that for a time walls stop and the miraculous touching confronting occurs the meeting of mind and body honey in the ethereal qwerty world Candide Diderot. ‘24 “Romance, who loves to nod and sing, With drowsy head and folded wing, Among the green leaves as they shake Far down within some shadowy lake, To me a painted paroquet Hath been—a most familiar bird— Taught me my alphabet to say— To lisp my very earliest word While in the wild wood I did lie… A child—with a most knowing eye. Of late, eternal Condor years So shake the very Heaven on high With tumult as they thunder by, I have no time for idle cares Through gazing on the unquiet sky. And when an hour with calmer wings Its down upon my spirit flings— That little time with lyre and rhyme To while away—forbidden things! My heart would feel to be a crime Unless it trembled with the strings.” Honey.