and caught up in headache i pulled out the old timey calculator and i tallied up my problems one at a time cross-categorized and i dug in to see what the algorithm was numbers floating strange algebra and cosines and lines of best fit floating through the air i realized i had a metric shit ton of problems and then i counted my blessings
Under the dim light of the full moon, a group of poets gathers in a hollow of Pearl Street’s Morrison Alley. Most people come here by rumors carried from one to the next in whispers. Some find it in a drunken wrong turn, stumbling down an alleyway to find a group of madmen howling at the moon. Or maybe it’s a bartender on a lonely cigarette break or lustful lovers who just can’t wait, looking for a moment alone but are thrust into the edges of poetry instead.
The blessing of writing, it seems, is that one becomes many. This, given the fact that a word exists only in the company of other words. (What is a word without another? A cry in the dark. More on this forever.) This, given the fact that the written word is comprised of letters. Flesh begotten of clay. What are we before we are?
"Everywhere in the world people have invented stories about the Beginning, about how the universe was created. All mythologies are a way of coming to terms with the fact that man lives between two times. He is born and he dies like every other animal, yet he can imagine the origin and the end of everything. And as a result of this imagining, he lives with the eternal, with that which preceded time and will follow it, with that which is continually there behind time."