...truly loved must then have been Hamlet. Or Ophelia. Or both. At some point all of us tensely coupled in a parlor of mirrors, searching for sources. Of love itself. Of the real or imagined deceptions it is clouded by. The parlor's checker tiles portioning out the halting steps we take. Trying, despite our minds, to land squarely on the black and white.
...Love as madness. Sometimes it is. Sometimes we are. And when so, it is a backhanded compliment. Cupid pistol-whipping you with the broadside of his arrow until you wish he'd just run the damn thing through already. Down a stiff whiskey, cock back that reckless, pudgy arm and crack your sternum stupid again. Anything but the thoughts spent minds fit in between the cold slappping flat of the point.
...Of course, to have all of this is "to be." To one day plot out our own dramas.
..."That is," after all, "the question."
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Very White Wall
Big Ideas, Still Drowsy
River Rat
Very White Wall
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