exit 77 (Instrumental)

-ũ. (Unreleased)

DBA Blū Tha Gürū

A kite in the wind

And a knot that was tied at the rock,

And a solemn last thought,

For a drop of your pronouns;

Wild and twisted the time

Or the will of the tale to be told

As if tongue handn't strung that same one–

Still yonder the surface

But never that gathered

To wake and to wild her thirst

At the alter

The christened and severed,

But glistened as cherubs

had waited her heralded platters

See, i told you it was the feast.

I couldn't figure out what “heralded” would have to do with

“platters”

Then again nothing much made sense at the time anymore as it was, or for that matter as much as it did therefore after–sometimes much after–timetimes weeks, and sometimes years, and sometimes what was heard to bear, the weight of eons passed between one thing and another. Entire worlds and lifetimes i'd had my eye and the back of my eye on, though departed, however as such categorized as things which could not have ever possibly have been discussed with one person or another–because, of course, however cosmic–they could not be explained, nor verified.

It was the greatest secret I ever had, and it was in every single essence of the word a very secret. It wasn't so deep or dark or anything which would convey that it should not be shared–but in the nature that it had come to me, in itself it was a very rare thing which could not be taught, or talked about. Some kind of work of art, or act of God, or reward for having such a hard love–but it might have been the cruelest one, especially because it wasn't dark, or amoral, or beyond ordinary at all outside of how it had been thought–or born in thought in the very moment of that inconsiderate system of escape in that which is the essence of presence, if even for a moment, of someone whom you very much love–even though present it is not. It is this, transference of energetic movement one might refer to as shapeshifting, and in some unwritten form of parallel I had been given this sort of encrypted phantom of knowledge i'd had my mind set on being wrapped around.But for that matter, whatever cloud I sat on no matter how high up, i had to live in such a way that I could convince myself to understand that every now and again, this one and I would cross paths.

For now, it was the best and worst secret I could ever have–the best because it was one I could have, and the worst because it was the most interesting thought–a puzzle solved and yet without any satisfaction because though the pieces had been put together, perhaps in a way you couldn't ever know what it was. This finished picture with fitting edges and four sharp corners with no discernable art that made it up.

‘What is that supposed to be.'

Then, this is pertaining to the assumption that you've for whatever reason the skill or need to put together this puzzle without ever having or having seen a picture of the box–just fitting the marked edges that ran along each other all together until one by one they all had a place to go–rectangular in shape and perfectly fitting and still in all that time and effort having done what you thought needed to be done in order to know what that might have been a picture of…

You have no idea.

And worse, it emulates no known abstract art–it seems less even than just a conglomerate mix of things, or a half-thought, or a pre-emptive idea–it just was jumbled, and now it's not.

[]

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My Name Is James

A Novel