There is something profoundly different about me, yet I struggle to taste the word. With symmetry of alienation, it lies beyond the palm of my outstretched hand.

A hand reaching for the unattainable.

For the grass, for the trees, for the light on the end of a dock.

A broken stream of consciousness, unique within itself.
Unfollowable. Unapproachable.
And to all but its master, unquestionable unrelatable.

By definition, humanity is about relations. Can mine exist as thus?
Or must I disguise these green eyes in an attempt at normality.

Oh tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow…
…this afternoon, and the day after that, and the next forty years.
Please tell me, how may I presume?

By artificial candlelight, sheathed by the thick of the bed?
Or by the mixed gravel pavement that scratches the bottoms of my smoothed feet? Oh how may I presume, how may I presume.

And when the given light flickers, how may I presume.
And when the ink runs dry, how may I presume.

And when my words become exposed, shamefully abashed in front of eyes beyond the veil… my opaque veil… my thick, dilating, inescapable veil…



How may I presume?

Or will there be no option, no impacting change upon reaching the threshold of differentiation.

No need to presume my dear, no need to presume.
The past shall correct all assumptions.