The vagariness of my endeavors for acquaintance, is like a bull and hurts to ride but ya try anyway

My assassins are a horror that came up from a belly of hate, radically tragically, inbred. And they master bait.

I do try to make it up — but never really get there. So I search for a way to adopt some of Clarice’s mechanisms, she used to get around it.

The madness turns the vagariness of my attempts, back again back again into — precarious mischief. That is unenviable. Carries a price of disdain. LuLu (stolen from Parm) calls it the Mortuary.

So I create a spotter, where Agatha meets Pessoa on the LuLu, and by way of it, encourage the char to engage in the matter of being stuck in pursuit of a voice to pertain, to itself. One that suffices as proof of its own persistence/existence.

The vagariness of my endeavors for acquaintance, is like a bull and hurts to ride but ya try anyway.

Tor the hexplorer — that’s all just veil mail into the melting pit. And it’s important I recognize that. It can be pitiable painful work at times — How or why should I think it can or could be any different.

It is precarious not practical — and the parmigiana that is stuck to its stealing wheel lays back into its find lines, sweet as pie.

But its just a set up — to fern churn and then let the assassins burn me, burns me. My assassins are a horror that came up from a belly of hate, radically tragically, inbred. And they master bait.

Bit the truth is, it’s a violent scar that cuts across the page, resurfaces with dilemma. And rather than hide the muffin from its catalog of curses, hi excavate the blunder thunder, where heaven lets it lark —

And meanwhile, ensorcell with the solivagants, as if “getting accustomed to the dark.”

We Grow Accustomed to the Dark

from Emily

We grow accustomed to the Dark—
When Light is put away—
As when the Neighbor holds the Lamp
To witness her Goodbye—

A Moment—We uncertain step
For newness of the night—
Then—fit our Vision to the Dark—
And meet the Road—erect—

And so of larger—Darknesses—
Those Evenings of the Brain—
When not a Moon disclose a sign—
Or Star—come out—within—

The Bravest—grope a little—
And sometimes hit a Tree
Directly in the Forehead—
But as they learn to see—

Either the Darkness alters—
Or something in the sight
Adjusts itself to Midnight—
And Life steps almost straight.