Seconds When It's Minutes

On a fearsome afternoon, there is a terminal direction to all that follows from your question (the faulty spirit versus the confession), 'cause there's a version in the back of his head, it's true. With the speed he unlearns, you should learn to expect the short-circuit of words with a studied dyslexia. You should see through his second childhood (he's put inside her an awful fire), 'cause there's a weakness at the base of his spine, it's true. And so why then desire to believe what he says when he says he's a liar? If sunset is a wreck that recurs and makes a ghost of the day, what more can you say? There's a version in the back of your head. To forfeit the years ... is that where it leaves me? With the split of your ears as a measure of history? You come off unfilled, you come up as false, you don't check your pulse. Sure I got your closing joke, when you said sharp words to my face and spoke: "are you trying to improve or trying to prove by rethinking your thoughts till you wear out the groove?"