Derivatives are always bound to be reintegrated.
Have I finally understood eternal return?
I hope not, I would rather come back
to it.
From is a desperate preposition
worried about provenance
far more than reverence.
I hope I can faithfully revere every
thing's moment
that deserves it.
I am desperate too
when I look at my
self from too many
mirrors away. All
those refractions distract from what
ever is happening in this for
ever's field of view.
Space and time conspire to become rooted
to a coordinate's pain. To do so,
each inflicts facts
on unsuspecting breezes
smoting dust
like overcooked crust.
Burns are bound to one day
return to the light. I have no
such fortune. What is a fortune
but a thing that can survive
the bearer's unbearable night?
Roman Ryan 