To share: who looks? I hope you do, for my vanity is such that I wish for you to rise with my heliostic surges like violins of grass, and tremble when my throat quakes in grief, and harp when my eyes sag under the weight of heaven.

I am dishonest. I'd like to take off a few layers; my own complexities have borne me under like so much soiled wool. I do not like the hookweights that I have placed at my temples to dirge about in leaden arias, slumping short of the gilded ceiling, unable to surface and breathe in the angels swooping sistinically in molten arcs through the firmament.

I speak too much.

I feel too concocted, as though I have nailed down my bones without intention, and confined myself without knowledge. I wasn't always this way.

I think some of you know fragments. Some of you know the whole of it, and I have given you little of that painting of late, only a blurred smear of darker colors.

Can I be simple? I want to be.