figuring out how to get and let these abortive creatures into the world and make them be seen in spite of me. they are inside of me and I hold them as though they mean something more. but out there, ugly ones, Be out there ugly little ones. i made you and i made you from me so be outside of me for me.
learning to crack on the outside too - come open. there is a Perfect, in a way I've not known, and it's a perfect reflected in the skies my head's been looking up to. down here, i think i know what the homeless man means when he says perfection is on the spit-covered ground, and no-one wants to be homeless to see it. but he is and he does.
