I detest the manual labor of flirtation devices.



When, and if this is the start then, it seems, of what would become a journal, then I will diagnose it as such for myself.

What I am learning now, is that many adopt a character, wholly not their own, when surrounded by a few of their crew. Don't dose me if I'm wrong, but when did we lose our identities as ourselves, no matter alone, with a close one, with a group of casual friends, or in front of a national projector. At what point of smuggling beneficiaries and compromising, negotiating, swindling our integrity into powder must we reach before all hope is not lost.

I once recalled a favorite sermon, one that greatly mattered then, one that fought to take my life, to push me into a cauldron from which excused the flaws, ignoring every last gift the elders would have brought us.

Oh, to only know what would have trumped, then. Our beaks are ravenously taking myth by storm, in an unholy cloak, beautifying the dimming wrath of our angels. To bless not in the potent verse, but redeem closed captioning upon distinguished dialect.

Hoping for more, yet saving less and less -- the buffet becomes clear -- and I must save for that occasion, the last sacred hymn. Tumbling the trapped flavors, and not savoring the rest.

I'll regret what's now half frozen. I'll entail what now is claimed to be, as I own it. It's all native blood. A leaf, a flower called to ask the recipe of...