Failure to–

A handful of c—words come to time.

Connect.
Condense.
Correct.
Coalesce.
Collide.

The last, first, middle one is the right one. The only one I was looking for, searching, hunting, begging, drowning for. But these massive failures amass like mud in a dirt field getting showered in the rain. Nothing goes or grows or moves but the mud up your legs, your thighs, your face and chest, your eyes and breast. You’ll be sucked down beneath the surface before you even know it.

How about you come to me, come with me, stake and shake and break up with me? Come and try and see if you can wake up with me. This light like sunshine is blinding in your eyes. We say, we say, we say…

Ha.

Nothing is necessary and nobody does good or bad.
We only pull the strings we’ve got sewn into our hands. Like puppeteers who’re tied to the puppets they control. A massive mass of lines connecting this point to that person and a to c and c to g and the end of the rope is in there somewhere with a knot tied around a stick that we could use to break it, snap it, cut it loose and end it. But you and I are just one/two of the trillion lines tied ever so tight to it.

What a happy hope we’ve got.
Ha. Ha.

Someone says it’s nature, nuture, the world or instinctual residue from ages past. Someone says its fate and slated and predestined destinations where the monolithic gods love us the best. Some say its the brain and the amount of it you can learn to use. Or the amount of hair and muscle you can use to bruise it. Some even go all the way to say it’s programming we can’t escape because it’s the only thing that sets us apart at all.

Oh but, the monkies love and make love, but we are building buildings to hold back the truth of the light and the air from one another. We filter and filter and add filler until the experience is ruined and reality is going down and we are live, right now, on a screen before your very eyes.

Someone else lived for you, for me, for everyone who was ever born.
Time to die, minha doce.
Time to lie.

C’mon. We’ll be gold on the other side.
Other side?
Ha. Ha. Ha.
Lots of c—words come to mind.
And I won’t say a single one.

A candle in a beeswax mason jar is all we are. Burn until the wick is gone. Burn until the wax is done. Burn until you smell the smell of your own fleshing burning. Then, just try and put yourself out.

I dare you.
— to succeed.

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