The Garden

Like a skein of loose silk blown against a wall
She walks by a railing of a path in Kensington Gardens,
And she is dying piece-meal
Of a sort of emotional anemia.

And round about the is a rabbel
Of the filthy, sturdy, unkillable infants of the poor.
They shall inherit the earth.

In her is the end of breeding.
Her boredom is exquisite and excessive.

She would like someone to speak to her,
And is almost afraid that I
Will commit that indiscretion.

-Ezra Pound

!!!

how to go online and be someone you're not:

if the variables align, and the equation is formatted as such, then it should be completely illogical for any failure, and epic should be impossible: unless, of course, the word "result" despises me enough to become its own entity and alter the process of hard work= pay off. 

a despondent sigh for a distressed heart

it's staggering to find out you gave someone too much credit.
everything is average until something so feverishly ignorant is said, that you find it hard to believe you have to defend their honor thereafter:

my melancholy stems in balancing a conversation with manners, when the person is a stranger. you have to work to sympathize for them and on behalf of them, i have to ask less, "how has this individual been coming along in this world, when we see and hear the same things and yet their result is dramatically anchored to intellectually different principles." i have yet so much to learn. but i have even more to come to terms with--