these chords, my simulated heart, make my father die while crying for a
day. these chords, a little warzone, pities the wife and child, the
people. these days, the night has a fat moonlight building to the end of
time. time ends today, my friends. these chords are correct and
lurching, breaking the afternoon into shards for evening’s sake. why
talk, the world is a bomb. my bomb loves my wife and child, and dad’s a
good gentle man. do you love the bland fog of last night, and how the
morning went deftly quiet, no explosions or tearing noise? our changes
are crude indications of some fiery element called a final chord. that
chord is voiced for seasons and the glinting ray. spring starts early,
in our very day, and we feel no loss whatsoever. we’ve got this elegant
charge and start. look how vocal one can be, words all around. these
chords, brusque and diffident, in the age that wears on us, speaks these
seasons and these trysts. I love my wife, my son, my father and my
light. we should all be together. good night in love extending thru the
doors and windows to the very night abroad. we are soaring chords alone.
