When life is a sentence and not a living breathed reality, it has its shape and it has its from, and its from has form, and you can’t deny that.
And when life is a sentence and not a breathing lived reality, it has its existence and it has its resilience, and its resilience resists as uncomfortably as it might, and the nights of tight sadness close in on one’s sole, and so walking the streets of a lonely old frailty becomes the one strength you do goddamn own.
And when life is a sentence, then at least you can make it and undo it and redo it and remake it once more, and although this may be minor and although this may be poor, and although both your poverty of emotion and your ability to choose is limited by your syntax – that unstated bad imposition on the beating blood of your heart, a blood which once circulated freely and wild – a small degree of virtue in that heart, that heart and sole still may remain, even so.
And so the life which has been assigned you and attached you in so weird a way becomes quite a series and becomes quite a sequence of adjudged and criminal sentence[s], never running parallel enough to be heard wrong by anyone.
And so you got it all wrong, and you hurt all those folk, and the spanners you used inserted, instead, their utility in spokes of unspoken thoughts – those thoughts which cycled so fiercely in only your head: and so that, dear peeps, is the reality you live.
And the really mad thing is all those wrongs you did are just as weirdly hid, behind firewall this and Internet that, and the Lord only knows what webby-art other. So even when you wrong, the forest doesn’t listen. And even when you wrong, no one cares.