Shakespeare’s philosophy on life’s adamant trial of death, is a daily reconnaissance to find singular meaning between the choice of life and the choice of death, as I squander my thoughts over pitting the two spirited convocations against each other. I despair the iniquity. Whether centuries ahead or past, the transparent within public appeal is for whom I ask, does time not reform? If not for achieving an ethical value for living a meaningful life, then do I? Both subjects are an elongated bridge to the other and my dousing opinion of Shakespeare’s Hamlet pertains in my mind to his most esteemed monologue, To Be or Not to Be. This ambiguous and vague phrase encompasses a circumspect for living meaningful. The conceptual portion I’d take from this matter adheres to belief in reformation or believing in reform, as also the usage to absolve every artistic contemporary movement undergoing societal change. Reformation then means to form anew. To add or develop more. It is defined as a change from worse; to amend; a beneficial change. The reason I mention minimalistic is because this word from Hamlet condenses itself down to six terms and observes human life in a way we often surpass when we don’t pay attention. As the controllers of time, in rebellion’s exchange for small observations. I think it appeals to smaller decisions made while navigating Shakespeare’s words of unknown creation and identifying, Hamlet’s an existentialist longing for love’s revenge. The choice hems together compromise and sacrifice, which we ask not of the patience to understand, and the humility to extend our childlike minds into places where freedom can dwell for others. We release the pressure of uncertainty when facing love and tyranny, time and authority at their magnitude(s). These constructs would serve no purpose because without us here to monitor the results, life continues. And while including Hamlet into this odd realm of opinionated babble and secluded thought, I figured I’d connect his view to my own well-being in this modern period. For Shakespeare was and always will be considered a writer, but to what end must I follow his lost pilgrimage? I don’t think he was lost much, rather those words he decided to choose, speak to an end in which we follow a path to complete our own distinction. A path where your highlight of the given year may not be the same as mine. And that, I’m okay with. Shakespeare created his own world of ideas and chaos; so grand that he became the language he sacrificed for.

I see as normal intuition the need or want in trying to be different, when being yourself makes the actual difference. Who is Shakespeare? I think of the backlash felt from the approach of successful persons, a ‘Mr.’ regarded before ‘Ms.’ because our high-ranking system argues to reform or change by way of revolution as response, gilding our history’s core. At that progression’s peak a response is urging by many to study and one such example includes The Thirty Years’ War, reported to last from about the year 1618 – 1648. Or a bit later Boston’s Revolt of 1689, where a colonialist group orchestrated the ouster of Sir Edmund Andros, uprising against newly imposed taxes and the abolishment of colonial assemblies. Here, we see the man deceive his own fellow counterpart by deluding himself when gaining profit(s) and instead of glimpsing out bliss from the little things found in life, he originates ways to expand those flickers into large views of desire. We ask where to go even after the ideas make a point of gracing our knowledge before. Time, love, tyranny and authority, are the ideals pardoning separation as they measure themselves. I, in that realm of thought, have given myself to the spotlight, to see and understand. In the early Elizabethan Age, boys were obligated to devote hours upon hours of careful study to memorizing and reciting literature. Naïve pleasure rocks their cradles now and lesser exchanges between us, I believe correspond to an underwhelming society. An all-encompassing view created that I’d hold if not for undergoing a strict and careful study of words myself, is dangerous. The craving to understand myself and our human condition is endless, but I’m no longer dwelling upon the stage of reformation as many think we are. You will always remain an individual and if you don’t, dwelling amid the dead is your most probable cause. And what we decide to do, say or act upon may very well rewrite the morality we learn to hold onto from the past. The morality code is to give more into others than others are willing to give out. Sowing a seed for short. This new direction has no title really because we haven’t given ourselves the time to measure, and with our abilities enhancing each day, being alive for the wrong reasons are what keeps us believing we can outlive death. Will I die just if sleeping puts a permanent end to my transgressions? I’ve been told I’m in my prime and if that seems to be true, am I reliant upon death to live or lusting after life before arriving at my grave? The first question I see arrive in its own existence as an answer for longing is a couple lines from Hamlet’s dialogue at the beginning, “whether ‘tis nobler in the mind to suffer the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune, or to take arms against a sea of troubles.” A point of overcoming rests at the heels of encumbrance here when he surmises what’s ahead before facing fear, as the false evidence of becoming appears real. Once I realize, the soul is impervious to the evidence of time displaying its illusion as confidence and confidence a fearful activation instead of powerful discernment; the power of deciding and showing judgment is the ability to showcase that acumen inside. And the emotional bandwidth for my decisions are the mechanizing results. Though the results are invisible, faith commends approval and the acknowledgment it’s already happened no matter what. If thou be stuck in yesterday or broken from the day next, then the present moment is eradicated.

Thou must be or thou should, remain in the present, if thou should be. Take from time the ‘should, could, and would have’ in the eye. And from what one sees, clarity is restored again for a higher present faith. If there be a knowing in the spirit, leading the charge to adventure, the soul will not stumble. And what comes of the other side “by opposing, end them. To die – to sleep, No more; and by a sleep to say we end the heartache and the thousand natural shocks that flesh is heir to: ‘tis a consummation’ devoutly to be wish’d. To die, to sleep.” If you’re really trying to quit, you stop the day of and measure the increments you gain along the road. A level of separation remains where the learning to define what is as it was, should be acquired. Not caring sometimes, is the point. How to do that, is the question. “The thousand natural shocks flesh is heir to” is a question bleeding into tyranny, as an arching target beholding on the other side, an incipience to true self. An erect soul standing to face overlying distant hills, below the open air of approbation. He looks to the sky so often for his own word of repentance after living a little. Tyranny is the hurt of no response. Until it’s taken into its own hands as restitution, it is fighting who “thou” is to be, or become, because of who thou didn’t make the choice to be in the present. Dying is permanent, there is no waking. The joy and the battle in due course become one and if I’m going to wake up authority is an attempted sacrifice, a death knell attempt or attempted self-murder and sabotage to escape away; maybe that in being someone else is genial fortification. To say the least, ‘I’m going to wake up,’ from a nation under cruel and oppressive government. Outstretching unreasonable, arbitrary uses of power and control. Time happens fast in pursuit and tyranny comes down to not going the same way. Rather than outstretch unreasonable, arbitrary uses of power and control, a favorable glimpse varies under the duress of course and combat calling time to finish. When so stretched by art, one thinks that becoming a slave to habit is the reality of an obitual ordinance. The proper path to self-distinction, lies in the ever-expanding notion of youth.

All I’ve ever done, was choose to love a woman when I felt she needed it most and I’m doing better sticking to my courses of action this time around. Some of us have chosen to overlook those we know who require it most, and in those moments of overlooking we miss opportunities that become unfortunate losses down the road. Who knew love would cause a stir amid the folks you’d thought understand. I think it’s because the most popular decision is always to flee if accepting the challenge to answer why you may love that person, is a transformation of you. And you might become a person unrecognizable to the ones beckoning they know you the most. Even if that comes from the person you love, who says they love you. The difference is the person or individual and I believe Hamlet’s person, is an elongated bridge in the crossover to conquering love. This is maintenance repair for the inevitable. It is “I know thou art with me in life and in death” because one believes in, thou, and the other believes in thou to become the sole proprietor of all decisions together. A remnant of their consummation. The everlasting kinship between two persons, as If God never saying anything doesn’t require faith to comprehend. Love is evolution and progression. I read, I speak, and I write. We think we don’t hear because we speak. When we listen, we know that silence can sometimes also be the ‘voice of God.’ Or the voice saying something within us to move and to go forward in self-righteousness and a vigorous belief in what we feel. To keep going is the voice inside all things, matters, and ideas. Including opinions. Love is the mortal coil of human entanglement; it is a wrapping of our bodies together into a spinning, intertwined life of events, running side by side together.

I’ve gotten up, I’m awake, and I remind myself again the importance of striking down this page with a thought I’d otherwise harbinger inside if my word wasn’t true, or if I wasn’t true to my word. Of course, my mood’s different from last year, though I also relegate the new mood to a new day. I didn’t have twenty-four hours inside it as I thought previous, I’m understanding the necessitative force behind its fleeting seconds in a way as another high-remarking urge to get these thoughts out as a path to beginning the work first thing in the morning. After the coffee, shower, clothing, anything else putting my mind at bay because the most critical task is now posting every bit of work I can before treading school property. The jazz music playing now as I sit beside my balcony door windows under a cold winter sun, feels different than the clear open windows I’d sit near drinking said coffee ruminating on the next thing for the day in the old Traymore. I think I’m witnessing the mode of progress. Before, it was the urgency of 7a, now at the balcony, the interstate never quiets though I can sleep, and no joggers are standing by bundled up for me to opine. This last word I used, I just felt. I do believe in my use of defining the word in its placement among this long string of sentences. There are only so many “Gray Days” one can celebrate and sometimes on some of them, you sit and thank the Most High for your physical placement and all your past loves. Because you know the ones that matter in a true sense never leave. The one true love always develops a something more inside yourself because in a way, I can look up now and acknowledge, “hey! maybe I’m a good person after all” because I’ve lived long enough to enjoy this moment. I still love you. I know I was meant for you and therefore thank you for helping me listen to life a lot more careful. There’s a song by Maze & Franky Beverly called “The Morning After,” and I’m in my recliner by the balcony humming a few words.

The sun is warm as the light sheds through and my coffee rests to the side of my armchair placed still atop my brown planner. My other small writing journal I carry daily is placated inside to keep the extra balance for the weight of my cup. When I mentioned before an ‘expedient attack,’ I meant this way of reaching a comfortable sweet spot I’d felt is necessary for attacking the silence that comes with it. The silence of the next word when I’m reclined back into my chair and there’s no demand for movement. I’d muse the silence of perusing thoughts for the one best memory I feel should be written down. If my nose were running and my hand still moving before I’d acknowledge catching it, the slight drip, then I’d have to reach for another honorary tip of my given writer’s advice, which is “resurrecting the child” inside. If I claim to see after listening to the path of my heart, then I judge not the memory best for an audition. The one I feel has an actual story behind it is the page not restricted to a complete encapsulation of wayward thoughts having no thread between them. Or, as the few put it, “a silver lining.” We speak out in the western canon as a thing to be discovered after starting the search. Again, it’s the same way writing becomes more fun and revealing, in my case for this adverb’s use, when I drop the habit of taking myself so seriously (adverb again) during the space and time I write. Because in an honest way, this here is the writing itself, the process of unspooling words to find the right ones I need to acquit myself of the pressure and time for which my honest emotion has an eventual, effective enough response to an answer I still have no knowledge of knowing. The wisdom is in revealing a lesson as the story makes room available for something if there. I thought everyone’s timing for showing up to Grandma’s house was perfect. I described to my cousin the plate I prepared. A fundamental list: turkey, ham, greens, no cranberry sauce (for me per say), green beans, duck, chitterlings, gravy for the dressing, dressing (ha!), potato salad, and rolls to cap it off. You’d imagine I was at a shelter starving for food this past holiday with a glance of my construction and it pervades what my Grandfather told me once at the table. Mr. Lewis, my grandparent’s neighbor of many years who I’ve known since a child, taught him how to eat before passing on. I sat in a comforting peace I hadn’t known existed when I’m halfway between the football game and my fork. I rest it and grab the roll. I’ll take a bite and then fumble around my fork puncturing the greens on top a piece of ham, eat them together. I’ll ram into the side a small mountain of macaroni and cheese while skirting a path from the potato salad to a couple pieces of turkey off into another region occupying my plate. It’s a game of risk for what will or must have a better taste together as the smells run up my nose, because I know soon it’ll all be drained out later in another form.

I was taught that love transitions to action for you, through knowing that the power of my hands above near anything else, can and will invariably touch the soul’s core through all five senses. My vision entails platforming the stage of love, with language as love being food for our sense. Feeding the soul: camaraderie, fellowship, and mutual culpability. My words are language for sensing where love resides. If all there is, is the woman left on a late night in Winter, that makes a man the most nervous or vulnerable in pursuing his goals without fail. I feel then as a last resort, she’s also the only creature of existence that can quell a man’s tyranny and anger so he can do so. The man’s main objective is proving in my opinion, that he can do something, if anything in the time he has allotted. The media’s a lie. I remember my Dad say, I don’t know if anyone else feels this, but I see out of my own eyes. Making the life one lives much more enriching. My mission for today includes picking up ole girl. I say ‘includes’ because the mission is making it to her and making sure that everything else in between the days’ time happens, no matter how far-fetched, how believable or not. The one reason I have to stave off other eyes expressing my vision the way they see it, is my party of they being named in trial. What is a choice without someone you want holding your hand? I’m proud of my position and the way I’ve gotten here. I’d change nothing in the world for my path because the unique story in my arriving here does entail a special quality. The quality of remembering and the smile that reaches across from cheek to cheek, is the want for a memory. Some don’t always produce a smile. I keep it original though. I write what I can, I look out of my eyes to check what I see, and the other senses I have, my hands will finish the results that come.

When I’d realize that there was nothing to writing other than sitting to do it, then there’s no pressure, no hurry, nothing I must contemplate unless I’m choosing to do so. And because of her, she releases a lot of pressure off me. She releases the pressure by providing me a bit of direction. And it’s not the direction of “I’m telling you what to do,” it’s more in a direction for guidance to be considered rather than direction itself. And by my willingness to be versatile in my efforts, I become a man of options. I become a man who stands and sparkles nobility out of my pores. And that other human connection that I consider so often, is ever more present and real, because what we remember of each other when we’re together, is the story we have the control to create. Take advantage of the word when you can. You can do anything! Anything, I’ll repeat. Two together does mean strength, because of how quick it can be diminished by the other. If my words mean anything and my sacrifice a vow, we’re going to make it. I’m taking advantage of another winter morning to step up better than I have the day before. My timing is impeccable, and it is ripe with a sharp listening-in on oneself to provide direction. I’m up and awake near 2a and I’m unsure what I should think, outside the random words marking this page. As once put by Hem, “writing is poetry turned into prose and it is the hardest of all things to do.” It is also called, taking command of your own authority wherever you are.

Thoughts out, thoughts out, get them onto the page! This is the writing or what it means to write. Either finishing a story, continuing a story, or beginning the draft. These pages later become sacred. How do I know? Well, from past entries read, being the most present in the moment with articulated thought geared toward, attuned to, or attenuated for the moment, are the reasons why I tread a glossing over the ‘ever-present.’ The question is of what’s going on or what’s happening? What story of the day is essential? We inhabit a time where we face new strains or variants of a virus in middle a pandemic era, and witness cases where those infected rise or have rose to front the public conscious. At incremental periods I’d spent a moment gazing up at the tumbling clouds in motion last night, as they overlay each other in long rows from side to side, leaving a few gaps in view of the dark sky above them. And as many would say the clouds are God’s foot stool, one could watch in real time an end at bay, nearing close without reading the word. Now how important is my writing compared to the next individual claiming to do so? I’d have no idea. For today’s thought, I’m in middle my graduate school application for the Fall of ’22. I figure it’s time I collect my master’s and join the exclusive ranks of true prodigious work. If not for a self-indulging work requirement in fulfilling purpose, I’d may not be in these hallways then. I think of my work’s discipline. I understand the furor’s daily practice in the being of ever-present, not only the page, but also for antiquity. For, the true emotional response to circumstance and the acceptance of a months-long hiatus from the world. For, the smell of brewed coffee in the morning and the thousand(s) of wet dew drops from rain penetrating brushes in the backyard. For, the work and maintenance of organized thoughts or organizing thoughts into story. And for, the only hope of producing higher forms of communication and connection existing beyond where I stand. The point of reaching the end of a given page in present is that, once I’ve gotten better at the flow, I’d pray and will forever continue. The hope is that someone else will see their own reflection in the streams and rivers whenever chaos is abounded. That is what changes my soul inside. The ridicule of something comes from a misunderstanding of it, most often yourself and the battle once again that seems to rage on, is understood first and foremost by up above. A scripture from Psalm 121 Verses 1-8 KJV states: –

“I will lift up mine eyes unto the hills, from whence cometh my help. My help cometh from the Lord, which made heaven and earth. He will not suffer thy foot to be moved: he that keepeth thee will not slumber. Behold, he that keepeth Israel shall neither slumber nor sleep. The Lord is thy keeper: the Lord is thy shade upon thy right hand. The sun shall not smite thee by day, nor the moon by night. The Lord shall preserve thee from all evil; he shall preserve thy soul. The Lord shall preserve thy going out and thy coming in from this time forth, and even for evermore.”

As time is just a spectacle to the higher, thy becomes thou over time, in which thy will be done period and literally. If one’s working in the present, it will least of all become by the end of day. To Be or Not To Be is a reflective type of question asking if a change to historical archive is to be reasonable; it is not. There is no true time, as life is a vapor. Authority and rule mean to last only so long. From that point, James 4:14 KJV says, “whereas ye know not what shall be on the morrow. For what is your life? It is even a vapour that appeareth for a little while, and then vanisheth away.” Here, James throughout most of chapter four, can be seen exclaiming to the twelve tribes in dispersion, to not fall into tribulation and chaos they do not have to be responsible for.

Authority takes time to reconcile or continue reign. And in the end without action, if lost at all, death comes without ever having lived. From Hamlet’s last words, “to grunt and sweat under a weary life, but that the dread of something after death, the undiscovere’d country, from whose bourn no traveller returns, puzzles the will, and makes us rather bear those ills we have than fly to others that we know not of? Thus conscience doth make cowards of us all, and thus the native hue of resolution is sicklied o’er with the pale cast of thought, and enterprises of great pitch and moment with this regard their currents turn awry and lose the name of action.” True authority is when you see what others cannot see and you do what others cannot. Thou are the title for royal authority…the power is given over to thou after lovers conquer tyranny each day they wake, to thou being themselves, in which some cannot do. You are love is the central message, giving to each other the full story or nothing at all. Even if in secret you do not have the courage to start penetrating the silence until something comes, Hamlet bemoans again, “the pangs of dispriz’d love, the law’s delay, the insolence of office, and the spurns that patient merit of th’ unworthy takes, when he himself might his quietus make with a bare bodkin?” The suicide attempt of taking one’s life is an outcome if chosen as God orchestrates the affairs of man. In unexpected ways he may not be fit in handling and for that, love retains control when control is released. To be is to take self-control and to not, is to lose control. That, must I understand for my life. For the word says in Galatians 6:9 KJV, “And let us not be weary in well doing: for in due season we shall reap, if we faint not.” Keep your memory, keep your story, and keep going, do not quit. Writer Connie Palmen states, “In writing, you unwittingly expose your most intimate voice, your soul. It’s beyond control.” Reading and writing made closing the gaps in my conscious, possible. One of many great questions I have in life, is when does God himself sleep? The answer, he doesn’t! Simple enough, God never sleeps, though he may rest. And that comes a day out of a week from creating our greatest mystery we haven’t known, Earth. One twenty-four-hour cycle out of a seven-day period, God only decided to rest. And he saves that rest for the chance to reflect. From Kindra Hall’s ‘Stories That Stick,’ as a sidebar note for inclusion into thought:

“When you have a great story to tell, the telling simply becomes an afterthought. When you have a real story to tell, the telling is as natural as waking up. All the fears we have around storytelling are formed because we’re not taught, told, or even allowed to use our natural story ability and style. We aren’t encouraged to tell stories. Instead, we’re encouraged to write reports, dig up facts, show our work, get the format right, and speak without ‘um’–ing. Get the story right and the telling will come.”

I can’t believe I’m sitting here right now, but I am. The immensity of life is unreal. The walls are thin, and the voices creep through, albeit a tempestuous meld, fusing thin waves and lines into hand gestures each pen I hold, can reach the end of pages with. The motion that seems archaic and unmovable as a Matryoshka doll. I wrote a note in one of my book’s margins, ‘The more you accept what you do, the more you accept yourself.’ I think it’s a true statement from the unreal segments of the world. I’d like to charge at my computer right now because I’m annoyed at the way my writing sounds. Not near finished and somewhat halfway there, the only noise I hear in this back room I occupy, is my growling stomach. With time being around 12:47p, a half taste for coffee to fill the growling void and $7 to input for gas. I figure I’d take some portion of the day to roam the future neighborhood I intend on living in. I’d hope a nice home for a reasonable rent price a month, maybe 7 to 800 and in preferable walking distance to Butler’s campus. When I think of writing from a pass through, I think without a doubt, that much more writing in a way, has gotten down. The quiet moment again at the window, with my blinds open and curtains drawn. I peek up to the sky, wishing for many things I miss, believing they’re with me now. I’m eliminating the word ‘still’ out my vocab bank, yet with no coffee rushing to it for the grave.

I’m in the business of overlooking. My words many, many times over and thinking on the amount of reading and the amount of writing I need to uphold belief in, to say I must and must have to. Or else no publication in sight. I thank God the 1920s are passed. American fiction is the same as a person asking – “prove to me what you’ve done for this person, that person?” False experts with semi-important contacts. I get the alone feeling of everyone making their way or just not making fair uses of their communication. What does it matter? Isn’t the reoccurring and living your life as a writer only for the writer, and this I’ve gathered, from writers. As if keep going becomes redefined just about every year. So much for putting together a paper and being good at it, for an A in class. F the burden of misunderstanding, it’s only for those that can. The truest thoughts throughout the day, are only bold statements made alone and sometimes in the dark alone in that room or study, one’s resigned himself to. On with your watch, and on with your tie. Sometimes to not even go anywhere at all. There’s no way, but through and the only time I use that conjunction. Blind iniquities are God’s revelation and not the Devil’s torment. Call things as they are, not what you think they’re made to be. I’m resorted to a chair to sleep in back home. Is it something I could’ve avoided, perhaps. The freezing rainfall is much louder and clearer outside the window now and I’ve been here so long it’s time to live. To see beyond the pinecones. And it only gets great when you’re ready to stop lying. I haven’t written anything spectacular this year yet, let alone a new year’s resolution. I cannot stop thinking though, that a funny and odd introduction sentence for the new year is, “My cousin told me his girlfriend’s name is Francesca.” As for the spelling of her name, I do not know. The name only rings a bell for the one I do. The one who began interacting with me at the beginning of Summer in 2020, after news began breaking of the coronavirus pandemic we continue living under. An odd coincidence aye? On top another cousin of mine leaving the Midwest to join my other cousin, in Texas. Quite a move for the new year I’d say, though I believe he needed it given the aggravation felt back and forth in his decision. I’m prepping my move also over the next three years. My aim is to get accepted into the MFA in Creative Writing program at Butler and take a historical memory research project overseas to Paris with me. I plan to have at least two or three books published, at least two, by the end of my three-year stint and a successful business I’m financially free from. I have destinations ranging from Spain to Italy on my list and I plan to enjoy those destinations with my family. It seems vivid and close. I believe we’re here. Our personalities, readiness, preparedness, and in general ourselves are stretched because we’re working our vision of bridging together. A path kids can cross where they require trust from their guides of truth. Where their expectations are exceeded. Where safe traveling to all places round the globe are imprints of their footsteps. In midst it all I can only say, God!

A writer is a person who leaves a partial piece of bread on a napkin with a near full glass of soda beside it, round 11p at night. It’s been a good and congenial day. And I’m running cashier at the football game tomorrow evening. I receive earnings from this past week in my first run at Lucas Oil and as my grandparents get older, I think of how they do their job. The more I think of losing, the more I keep thinking of having to move on and live. My grandparents believe in me and the discussion of growth compared to old age with my grandfather, echoes the same or similar words in my ear from Adalid, “why don’t you just live your life that way,” as in being the writer I say I am. This is important for many reasons to me. Should I hate she knows me, perhaps not because in the end it wouldn’t matter if I were just a lesson to learn from in these past years. People are special and individual persons you get to know become those you miss given your penetration at some levels of their life you didn’t think you would. It’s when you admit that you were probably wrong in some cases and certain persons are sometimes responsible for the mood you feel reliving those moments. Riding in the sunlight down the road in a peaceful, safe comfort. A hand on her thigh for connection and solidarity is time questioning its importance or not. And yet overtime, only certain moments are realized as the only true instances and memories lasting. Who am I to you and how much does it matter to me? Deep inside somewhere it all matters because of how far we may seek as individuals to find and see the truth in one another. I remember sitting in Detchon Hall alone, to study and lament my graduating. Will my education reflect a life worth spending in freedom for a choice to respond and not quit? Well, filling notebooks anytime is a little anecdote I’m reminded, that I’m never alone. Understanding that is what makes my being in life, happy.

Did he run quick or sprint, to a bare bodkin’s death with cordage round his neck? To suffer for the riches, setting on your own wilderness is ‘Not To Be.’ The guy you are and the guy you’re not. The gal you are and the gal you’re not. The man you are and the person you’re not. The woman you are, but the person you’re not. Three words are at the center: reliable, compassionate, and prompt. Result of their defining actions come at their end of day and consummation is the point of which something is complete or finalized… for Hamlet that did not happen. Confusion is not an answer as one remains in search. And with confusion’s partner being misdirection, the power of life & death rests then, in your tongue. A man’s confidence resting in love not finalized, complete, or agreed upon, is the first thought or incursion of death. Death to the soul bearing pain it wishes not to be for storage. “You must over and over choose the book over your own wishes and feelings.” Inundate your mind with brilliant flair and scores of habile masteries. “That patient merit of th’ unworthy takes,” is the disposition that whatever’s made, can be taken. Lauding tyranny before authority to emit unification, as even against itself. A bare bodkin is a sharp object or mere dagger, in which I assume the question of sacrifice crops up for Hamlet, questioning death at this point. What does love sacrifice if law is behind its own ‘timestamp of approval?’ The dread of something after death is the approval to govern a fleeting life, as it stands. I’ve heard that wherever it’s born, vivid writing is verbal first and with precise verbs being recommended, I get the picture of American life emanating an old man with a guitar and gray beard. What describes life in this western canon more is the scene in his growth where he’ll choose to walk slowly, or stroll and saunter to his next point. After deciding, he’ll tip his hat and look, soon exiting away. And I say,

“I’m grateful for you…are a miracle.”