C + Wonders Revision

Neither Christ, nor Buddha, nor Socrates wrote a book
-W.B. Yeats

All the children sing! Perhaps we are in love, this pizza and I.
Perhaps these dirty fingernails, that pinched ass, this closed door, a dead winter sky, perhaps these are all the beautiful things we have.

Perhaps the man in the mask has lost his mind and lost his trajectory and is spiraling further and further down this frustrating loop into a winding river that leads to the limits of psychological insight and self-truth. Some men have a battlefield. He has a bathroom mirror at 2 AM, taking off the mask, letting it writhe to the floor and feeling a nebulous nothing.

Expect something? Get nothing.
Expect pizza within the hour? Try 45 minutes! Yay!

The University Hall, like a shadow of men no longer standing in the light, haunts in its steadfastness and we meet in a small stone room ringing with silence. 15 pages, the man commands, and we stare solely at our feet and twiddle our pencils and bite our dirty fingernails and a large percentage of us start with the word "I", most of the rest start with "The" and I start with "Everlasting sun, continuously exploding, why nothing to give but light to my sorrow?"
Laura takes white pills and holds her breath under the sea of blankets. She drowns each night, writing poems inside her dream and swimming to emerge at the surface of wakefulness in time to write down their titles. That's all she can ever remember. Laura was happy.
Joseph has a Jesus tattoo on his left wrist. Ask him WWJD and he'll answer Hell to the fuck no before taking another bite of his cheeseburger. His life an epic poem of filling up on grease and sputtering fleshy deposits into the coed dorms. Occasionally Joseph writes, in massive thuds of paper that he cannot control. It’s all there, I just feel it and ingest it and spit it out. Unfair, oblivious. Pass the Monster wouldja David?

All the children! David is happy that he is sad. Jane loves to write because she cannot write to love.
Whitney is old and foreign and is home wherever she is. Bobby loves attention. All the children sing!

The ecstasy hides within the mundane.
Real feeling hides in death.

These people can be happy, eating pieces of the pie, rolling out term papers that unfold like the dawn and what am I? Masked and sitting here. Feeling like writing a testament to the plumate clouds, homage to future seasons, my ruffled hair, the way your hand brushed mine and I felt bombshells under my skin.

The wind is cold, that cigarette was dull, these pizzas are warm, those thoughts are refusably not-good-enough and perhaps this is love!
Above all, perhaps this is love.