I recoil at the impossibility of mental and emotional retribution. What I want: less internal demands. And longer bliss, bliss exempt from that breach, the habitual reminder- we are fatefully fucked, eventually fucked. How does one continue?
My body is warm. I feel:
A new distrust
In the phenology of life,
the unsolicited favor,
the stylish appendage.
It's Tuesday. Eighteen days remain.
