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  • Writer's pictureAmelia Nicol


Yields, there are yard lengths for measuring the commitment of ideas; there are places stuck beyond reason asking themselves again the proper measurements and avoiding the common placements. There, just beyond and always asking itself again for the posture necessary the delinquent regard of supposedly shared space. All those quarters of delivery and deliverance, the number of volumes or the volume itself displaying the fitful reward scheme revealing its triumphs in disregard and desecration. Parts missing or lost phrases startled and wondering for the commonality assurances between entirely foreign dilemmas. The ways tried for fitting a story or narrative to space it will never belong in; the realities so convinced of themselves as to take relevance from others’ situations in hopes that trying it on will mean attention or persuasion for popularly held diadem intended to mold and shape us beyond that which we are making of ourselves. We stood at the heights of revelry and drank the skyline from its mountainous enclosure; lost to another inclination we swam in our own wonderment for moments, and laid ourselves out to dry alongside the brackish salt water lining. The birds flocked like molecules and the sky was listening to the rhythm at least, the positions of pressure realigned the polarity of each charge for instance and rearranged the lingering sights of shadows displaying for moments at a time from the lengths of wingspan we could never open our eyes quickly enough again to pinpoint. Pulled along in tinsel lengths of memory, the scenery divergence mesmerized by discernment patterns and wandering hopes. The strength of volition, those deeds of hypnosis in relationship; imagine a companion without manipulating their image as if every weight of romantic realism will be still regarded as rejection or issues. The ways we balance ideas of self alone or supposedly ever part of outside togetherness. There are endless numbers for the finding of more irrational limits bent to the sighing of imaginary possibles and their likeliness shrugged with attributed voice mechanisms or struggled to make ends for meeting each other, knowing the relevance for the points to be made were never going to actually touch. Impossible for chaos, those closer and closer to the actual events of indicative happenstance or actual coincident gather a bit and quietly cringe at the amounts of gain or levy needed such discussion aloud alone. Actual and natural disorder found limits for reasoning beyond us, and dropped again to the necessity in drawing out better lengths for guarding the ways in which inopportune tendencies knock at you; there are always any number of options that have not yet presented themselves. The waiting as if the time apart sought reliance in happenstance for itself to formulate the drive compartmentalized by intentions never shared and wariness understandably shaking to the calm quieting reasonable arrangements. Reason and rational attention, those smoke rings dally for the patience of focus and the deliverance of self-centered insecurity, the hallucinations listen in to every motion and pave every possible motive for you. The fortresses of constructive criticism are cracked foundational upsets to empirical reasoning and ownership of thought; this current construct could want nothing but its own destruction for moments. That destruction saw itself the limits of power and greed set by natural disaster, by the grounding of swarmed or directed energy, in the escaped survival exiting as an entrance. There was a dead bird on a telephone wire, the flocking mechanism of molecules and the tonal inflection of song learning in wintering birds for the type of sonar necessary the changing of seasonal path or remembering of prior patterning wearied itself in frenzied flight and sat to rest for a moment. Zap. There must be an entire map, the size of that tree that could fit in my brain; there must be miniature scaling for these ramparts of matrices that have no exact precision but must none the less have that imperfected wholeness someplace. Must have direly needed the idea of actual source at some point or another, or absolute answers or avoidance maneuvers for the rally against the manipulation factors so fervent in metaphysical wonder. The assumption of a relevant unmoving tether for more than a moment, all these oversights are glancing at each and every part of space left open to the questions; are poured out from the sort of destruction never hearing them has delivered our understanding. Alternative systems stamped themselves out from beneath the relevance necessary logical thought for moments, just to breath the fresh air before the strangling sense of commons and acceptable reality stifled away the ideas again.

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