i do not know if we had a destiny. we began walking slowly down a street paved of polished obsidian, scrying delicately, subtly. slipping. night dropped, i felt the moon and turned my bones back. without consciousness, i grabbed your hand in two of mine. we fled fast and far until the moon was unobscured by city constructions. meshing our feet again to the obsidian, you began weeping small crystals. i begged you to look to the giant illuminated milky orb above us. scarlet clouds kissed its edges then shattered at just the precise moment. your eyes lifted. i let go.

dream.
october 28, 2011.

lure has slithered before me as a majestic snake awaiting to be charmed. how tempted i am to chant. though my lungs are vacant and my voice-box has locked. the serpent coiled my throat. i must've been tranced through the hypnotic undulation. i cannot discern what is transpiring. my temples are rapidly infused with heavy throbs. my eyes have slipped to tunneled visions draped in opalescent white. you emerge in the distance, silhouetted, swathed black velvet tattered cosmos embodiment. emitting halos which sprout slowly, faintly from you forming like moon-bleached moss tendrils. shy auras, i long to touch. perpetual drift.

there will always be that little part of you.

all my trials, soon be over.

there are moments,
(undisclosed), when
the strangest
surge will well
within me,
if only--
to say it,
simply--(i
cannot). you
are an entire
catacomb clutching
my chest.

when the moment comes wherein you feel the stillness of the known
and you realize that same stillness exists too within your heart--
how, then, do you ever wake from dreaming?

it's getting old. i have the most immense desire to part. for seclusion. to be a working artist, on my own. outside of stale poorly lit classrooms in which i'm not gaining anything but debt. outside of this land clutching my ankles, draining my dreams. nothing vexes me more than exuding such exorbitant amounts of energy into my artistic concepts and executions just so that another may "be inspired" and confiscate them as their own. imitation is never the finest fucking form of flattery. this is deteriorating. my spirit has neared exhaustion. i must leave soon. a new aura is beckoning, and it cost $309 for a one-way train ticket to new york.

there are things left unsaid which will always remind me;
your essence lies lurking among my most precious phantoms.

i've fallen into such delirium. engulfed within an abyss discombobulated. unable to balance. unable to steady. expectation is the worst of all fates, but the most entrancing of my dreams.