Love and mathematics

And oh in these midnightish autumn evenings, how the man who loves me attenuates the edge of my despair in just the way I need - the better to delay the day's folly from following me into a drink and in my dreams

and how this hyperborean wilderness becomes the climes of my chilly soul

never having been loved like this before

I become more untouchable, in all ways but this - inviolable like the calculus of our carefully-plotted cardioids

And in no way your woman, whose amour de soi died with the dawning of the winter.


The sadness will ebb soon, and lull me into complacency. I have become accustomed to satisfaction and dare I say happiness, but then the tide returns

and I am sad

and there is no cure like the ones I devise for myself

all of them intent on harming me into inert peace for once, and forever.

Thermodynamics for the new

Needling those endless alloyed worries thrust against the aching clouds, spinning thinly into the open air to perpetuate the entropy for whom we're all working.

And it speaks with an unnatural candor for a paradigm, oh this new heat death - the equivocation into meaninglessness that threatens an expiration

inexorable like the end

of a book never read.

Wasted on the young

I nearly forgot. Today is 118.