Sublime

motallaric

androgynous

What if somewhere inside me there is a dark limbo where all the truly important memories are heaped and slowly turning into mud?

The live bough bends. The dead twig snaps.

His misshapen body, that gray mop of abundant hair, the yellow nails of his pudgy fingers, the bags under his lusterless eyes, were only intelligible if regarded as the waste products eliminated from his intrinsic self by the same forces of perfection which purified and chiseled his verse. He was his own cancellation.