Why is Apathy

considered the thief of joy;

that which provides the ultimatum

in constraint between stimuli and response.

Here, we

crave the making of meaning – in such

a making; the joy and

despair both, the

nether land of

cessation of a future, failing

forward. And continually, we lean

into the possibility of respite.

We lean and lean, these

paper-wood walls holding out just

barely, over west-

coast chill. You take

yourself through

the ages here; ages

and ages hence, just a quick

continual pivot against adolescence

that forgoes itself the

youthful burden of trial, tribulation,

and hopeless transgression.

And through such transgressions

and parallel forgiveness of such

transgressions, we land

where we land - sometimes,

landing here, in heel, hill

and valley. The silence is

profound, such that

you feel

its truth, or, equally, its absence

easily; no need to retreat to

recalibrate cohesion or rather at least 

an effort towards

such cohesion. More and

more, we suffer, we

fluctuate, we

meld into the madness

that populates, and beg beauty

out from its core. Such

are the hills and such

are the horses, and such

are our wills toward symbol; such

a need to negotiate over the fabrication

of personal philosophy – to what extent are we

willing to reason ourselves out

of reality and into the bounds of

phenomenology; the appropriate

room, thereof, being, too

a door back

to the light

of the world, originally marked

‘profit,’ but now just, ‘desire.’

A room of winter light, dedicated

to the propagation of said light.

A room of light from which

to write.