The culmination of experience marches inexorably towards assisting the definition of being and identity (or lack thereof). Looking at a person, not seeing everything, but noting impressions, depressions, elations. Missing repressions, nervous ticks when backsareturnedandeyesareclosed, and casting sideways glances (while the viewed cast internal shadows) in hopes of glimpses and asking pointed questions that manage to cut deep yet expose little, like slamming your foot down on a nail (and occasionally the nail is attached to a board and you've crucified yourself). Where to go, to tread (and where to stomp and t i p - t o e), to retreat. Attempting to find lines to read between and predict. UnkNOwn. Here, failure is not an option. It is an absolute. (Re)Solutions lie in interpreting failure and crowning oneself with thorns, making sure your feet are firmly nailed to the ground, and standing. Not necessarily firm, because as return questions are stabbed, you best be damned sure to dodge the spear. What good is a fucking martyr?






Ok, I think I've got it out of my system.