I want today to place pencil heavy to paper until ripping,
from the metal guide its design calls for, scraping the
pulp from itself. Perhaps not to puncture, rather wear
thin its glossy veil. This is my desire yet I know nothing
of what inspires me to do so. From what realm does this longing
come and want to bring with Him a visitting relative--time,
Himself or another? Nonsense, I'm sure. Art forms
as another with decaying rhyme and sound. It does not matter
the original sin, set the vapors to cycle, neurons ignite!

Aye! Profound! yet, I know, longevity longs a transparent
longing thicken comfort within discomfort, the outlawed
noose and a star for each chain contained in bronze display
of mantles, and a tearing eye tears mine.

Homeward bound!