And so you withdraw, pulling back, letting the game take its own shape in yourabsense. It's the only fair thing, you say, and you wash your hands of it, thedrips from your flailing limbs forming the smiles on improvrished children, ofnew civilizations. Meanwhile, the plant, the central focus of the old worldbegins to rot, its carcass falling over, crying for its lost parent, even asit dwindles, its edges blur, and the earth reclaims it. You sigh -- you lovedit, and it's hard to let go of a way of life, bot today's icons make tomorrow'slumber, and thursday's garden soil. The plants, they're always there, watchingus, judging us. An eternal judge? No, judges are as finite as possible. Onlythosee that really live can understand what life means. You want to touchinfinity, I want to touch finity, the briefest life. The old is not sacred,and even the most aged creatures still take breaths, still have that vitalityto postpone things another day.
I cannot see the edge of the lake -- you spoke the words, and the mist in yourbreath has made for me a fog. The words, they imprison us with the softestmanacles. In an age where technology drives for harder, more complex locksand timepieces, you've found the sundials and the stars, where we strive tospeak louder and more rapidly, you learn a new economy of words. Funny, thatword economy there, how it dances its meanings above and below. You can'tstand there with a candy cane, and claim to be mother nature. Death is somethingwe try so hard to understand, but always there's some doubt, some disbelief.iYou don't know if the new concepts are ready to be applied yet, but I tellyou, now's the time, if ever. And so another song enters the world, a cry ofpain and misery, and a programmed peace.
Anyhow, I'm pissed at myself. Crushes suck -- I keep making a fool of myself,on reflection, to people I have a crush on. Sooner or later, it's going tobite me pretty hard, I think.
