What worth are you more to me, little place. Little page, little solace.
Why do we speak in cryptic paintings, with pseudo hidden meanings and faux attempts at impressing a mysterious visage upon ourselves? Is there any difference between expression behind incoherence and just keeping it in? Maybe. It lifts, and the sensualist in me says that is all that matters.
We all wish we could remove the masks and trebuchets, run head first into the anomalies of our life, smashing into their seemingly impassable barrier of non-solution and just… say.
But the world will not allow us. It will never be prepared for us. It will snide, it will laugh, but most terrifyingly, it will run.
And so we will love the world with masks.