Great figures of society portray great crimes and then draw great forgiveness. Perpetual repression being the powder keg that could only smolder slowly burning within a burned out hollowness of frustrated passion. Undetectable to any save those who close their eyes. Thomas Mann, Eugene O’Neal, even Raymond Chandler. Indoctrinated into living by the ideals of others penchant for death. The flaws they suffered at the hands of success. It peels your soul off your own hide leaving all protection gone. That dark persistent shroud of failure ever lurking at every corner of blind opportunity. The fatality of self-recrimination always waiting out of sight. The true artist’s life. Torment in every new possibility. Clinging death following up close behind. Great swooping bouts of melancholy in four four time. The artist must suffer to give birth to his art. Dubiousness ever a painful affair. All intricacies gone to rust. Exclamations always dipped in lament. A shorthand of desires. Serendipity being worship for a lost idol. One of two extentions stemming from the same form. Fragile branches like the stems of a last forgotten potato maturing behind the darkened cupboard where it had rolled away. That this love inspires hate. A deep distrust of all things living. Assembling a new language in one’s dreams. Pigeon of the ghetto tongue scared of simple verbs. The fracture of something better. The world of hopeful surrender to fame and fortune has been sold off on the cheap.