Don’t belabor the. Point. Tip dulled by the heavyhanded sides of your wide file’s edges, the flesh and fingernails of slowcrushing and socalled Thought. I am not. Going to. Gethsemane, or love him with wholehead, for that matter. It doesn’t. The fabric and foundation of a haunted world, the quirks of a quarky conglomeration of nations happily. Wielding their blunt/s/words. Like symbiosis survival sunharvesting and Superman-Overman. Wouldn’t or doesn’t or won’t go. To Gethsemane, or crazy for that matter, though maybe away (not in the way he once went, crying forgiveness and crazed). We’re all coolheads here, so let’s not belabor. The point is we’re all loving the same.
Good God! What have I. Done, I am un. Der your standing, un. Done, with the dark please bright blazingeye shining like firestorm in all my desperate doings and blissblind unloving please don’t open there they’re unready I am for wide-eye unready these twistedup handheavy Thoughts, for You—