the return

so I have to admit: I lost my way in all of this. all my best writing comes from the madnesses that haunt my head, but lately, I have just been...cheap. I am entirely too much violence, too little trade-winds. and though I like everything, I never liked those big speeches, the ones that promise return. I know, because I offer them up, and they are wrong. because I must always remain this way, an explosion of suns, and silence—everything.

I think I am still trying to apologise.

it should not be about me, and it was never supposed to be

I write to you, the ghost in the glow, who wonders the same, in hiding your hopes. I wonder if you know how similar we all are, behind the games, the wounded teeth. but, there is hope—I know it. when you keep falling down, biting your own neck, then you can only recover. grace will mark you, and change will scar you. you will notice some tree, some small bird. you will smile. you will see that people are not sleights of hand—they fold their hands, and come into spark, and loose a light, a brilliant rabbit from your days.

it is just—we recover—we return. if you are falling, you play another song. you find the quiet that the night knows, not its vicious little—here, where I am, this stagnancy

It has been too long, and I return:

you wanted a song, or a boy made of strings, but I am put to trigger, who is only biting bookends, writing this forever, if only there was some time.