Measuring matters

The mind is many things, a river is a thread, and a journal is a way of leaving so that it isn’t just the weaving string that withers when the seam pulls up and its somehow strangely pieces come apart.  How to go from one to another, to organize the brains and such, and then how to count.  Translators, revelry, bells broken and tongues expunged.

The whale’s song is only beautiful because we do not hear its words.  Its momentum kills us literally.  I’ve nailed it: momentum kills the conscientious, batters it against the rocks of agnostic.  The stretch starts with a nail and ends with a tearing in all places.  Our heads are not so limber.  To live is to lumber from one such room to another, whistling it away.