Patience – it conjures not – but is itself conjured from the worst of restless men, the ablest of waiters told to strike upon a chance, leap upon the accident. I, I diverge; I am carried by a whim to where I needed am aware of needing too, feel the issue of a wanting breath upon you, heavy and in health pursuing what it means to be afflicted, feel not subject but the object to this slimmest of a choice, dimmest of a chooser. Beggars can’t be muses – but in slipping off obtuse and fragile whites the robes are useless; the skin is biting off the burns that I’ve grown used to, masochist and meek as I’ve become. Stripped and aflame I am judge, meant as immune to the grudges of arrow and vine, love I divine must be HONEST and PURE, felt with the fury of murder and milk, mother and thinking the torment will cease, time will herāld me dīslexic et certes: man born to power but stranger to wealth. With one word I breathe hell, dangerous verdict to swell and sincerely succumb to a sign, the image of blind and beguiling in flesh. The promise of blood from the woman that springs, the loins that keep holding for cruellest winter. Her I will have, and remember: de choisir est un acte de tuer.