Cells aligned in youth to create more youth - perched to spring, launch, collide into the gametes of strangers, or what may one day become a stranger.
Bursting with glandular joy at the prospect. We travel here and there preparing to prepare. Making ourselves more complete to complete the task. To give life a crucial buoyancy, its sense of rising. Having balanced itself enough to surface well upon or approaching a natural death.
The child, of course, becomes something else. By and by there is growth of its own accord. As if, and so much of it. There is something selfish about living, though worse accusations can be leveled about much less.
The well-rounded people I know regard loneliness as an occasional luxury to explain or describe their occasional sadness. If they feel the unexpected need to bother. The least are full of the most that can possibly be endured.
Broken and empty and increasingly meaningless. My life is not what I might have chosen. It is not what I choose now. It is not what I had seen those years ago. Yet, I recline in a sometimes quiet place to read or play the guitar or listen to an album. In the end little is satisfying. What used to fascinate me now appear as stars
I have been reading too much, trading recipes for too long. I.
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