(rough draft of an image whose style will be pertinent to my project)

from pine to palm, the expanse rang with silence.
Except for occasional squares of buildings, the outdoors
persuaded one of a certain ancientness, the one
that either spurns lovers to consummation or jealous
men to murder. It was a mysticism of the earth,
the sky holy as the self-gathering of a
the first protobiont, like many beads of rain
magnetizing to each other, pulling in towards each other,
leaving shards of water only for those who
couldn't make it into heaven. the dawn and day
were equal in loveliness, while the dawn
would be more lovely in remembrance with its corners
scintillating with strands of light
practically interlocking, how when closing
your eyes the only thing within your own
solipsist nothingness was a a morphed-to-purple
outline of the sun. Everyone was lonely,
but only for a moment, and then they slowly woke
and flattered each other with their company,
proving that even the weakest redemption
was available even to those of weaker merit.
Slowly, the crowds shuffled from their rooms,
growing in number and thus apparent absurdity,
more women then men, and more men than
could be handled by the women.
The men were, as far as could tell, simple,
thinking the same thoughts,
how they needed that resort away from the resort,
whereas the women's thoughts were bouquets of
diverse expectations for their husbands, fecund
only in the straightforward masculine soil of desire.

An angel told me its name and said that I couldn't tell it to anyone else. But I skipped around speaking the name to the leaves, and they began to rustle softly, rustling this wisdom to me:

Do flowers grow to bloom, or bloom to wilt?

Does one count the hours by the tick of a clock, or by the jaunt of someone winding one up?

Does the sun chase the moon or the moon chase the sun? Yet one does love the other, the other thinks it’s fun.

Do you not know that everything is in its place? If what is there should be here, then it’d be there.

What is existence to you anyway? You sleep through it, yawn to it, stroll past it—like an silly swine you roll in it.

Those who will do anything to preserve mystery are like foolish gamblers, they’ll spend their whole fortune to win impoverishment.

What? I should have both faith and reason? But what’s the reason for that?

What? Language doesn’t refer to anything? Then why are you speaking to me?

What? There’s a reality for each person? Well which one are we in?

Newsflash: the Great Vowel Shift happened in my salt shaker.

Newsflash: a stool softener is neighbors with a shooting star.

Day is the question, night is the answer, and thus it is written: "let the heavens answer their own mysteries."

You can have the fiery hi and freezing low of life! It only leaves one sunburnt and shivering . . .

miscarriage is always the outcome of trying to give birth to oneself

if only you could inhale life for as long I've exhaled it!

I am here for you: not that I can give you anything, but merely that I want to.

the blazing sunset, a panoramic range of an insane asylum.

she swims in creeks of pineapple, strawberry, and kiwi residue.

If you fear the sting of lightning, it might not split open a pomegranate for you.

The grains of a sunset pours their dryness, their ecstasy into me.

Shakespeare crawled into my marble before it replaced Mars.

I'll never know why some chose never to be born—and there are few alive who've told me why they continue to go on living.

Will you fill yourself with the world? Yet you’ll fill yourself so full that you’ll spend the rest of your life emptying it out.

Never speak ill of the dead, except Hitler.

Tragedy is one of those things better in theory than practice.

Carve the sea shores, delve the caverns, pace the mountains, sail the skies, and bring me something more pleasing and miserable than the human soul. Live your years, bear others to do the same, and pick yourself a coffin--but before you dive in look me strait in the eyes and tell me there's something more glorious, more sensuous than the human soul that the universe has hid from me.

Life welds the humor of a rainbow with the seriousness of a sunset.

The spirit is willing? The flesh is weak? If I had used that excuse throughout school I would have had much more time for writing.

So, you will attempt to outrun your own patience? Yet even to brag in its face you must patiently wait at the finish line for it.

The past and future are always whispering secrets behind the present’s back.

Mozart is the only human who created something literally perfect.

If we’re honest, we’ll admit that all our fantasies—don’t picture them too long!—never held up to our reality.

Is wanting a painless world blasphemous to God, or are speculative theodicies blasphemous towards us?

I’ve seen it one too many times! People will even kill and be killed just to stay in style.

If youth is for the enjoying, why does my despair run so deep in these years?

The moment you indulge in something transient, fooling yourself that is it eternally satisfying— what a glorious and tragic moment!

You think it a comfort when friends and family side with you no matter what? Just wait until people side against you for that same reason, tell me how awesome it is then!

Sometimes, it feels like all talk is small talk.

Maybe it was all just a good dream anyway.

Neglectful living happens usually when you have many options; regretful living happens when you practically have none.

Maybe plants do suffer, but what would we do then? Is our poetry greater than their push-pin?

When everything ends, how inconsequential will the sound of trash-legions roving the world be, though the din I hear now sound similar.

There is nothing more mysterious than color, but let them be a mystery unto themselves; there is nothing more beautiful than a flower, so let them be a beauty to all: I loathe mystery, yet delight in glory.

Life is a polyphony of marriage bells and funeral knells.

If we are all humans, and therefore all the same at heart, then why need we ever introduce ourselves to one another?

If you are primarily motivated by negative drives, people will eventually notice.

People sometimes can’t get enough of empty rhetoric: when someone cease to tell it to them, they tell it to themselves!

Sometimes the most existential of despairs are caused by sleep deprivation, or something similarly banal. Sorry Dostoevsky, that high ideas did not place me on the brink of insanity.

I was staring out at a blazing sunset, desirous of blindness,
When something likes a spec, a dot in the distance expanded in approach;

Minutes later I could see it was an angel, coming right towards me,
Shrouded in darkness and scalloping clouds, whispering to me:

“Loving me, you mimic me, and brag of me, but never glance
into the mirror, my boredom to see—
Adoring me, you dance to me, and sing to me, so unaware
that all I think is ire towards thee—”

And I stood just still not looking in its eyes, I was at a loss for words;
it began to flounder a glorious floundering, indicating to the world
victory, and then it went its way.

As it floated calmly back, I conceived of my own whispering, and said it aloud:

"let me carve that which I love in a tree,
and then thou will know that I love thee,
carving names of friends and kin,
carving scores of symphonies,
carving scenes of drunken lovers
wobbling down the boardwalk planks,
the world, so perfect the way it is,
spins and revolves every time that you blink"

And as the angel was still leaving, a tear of sweat cracked on its head,
And then as it faded to nothingness a blissful panorama opened up,
wherein I saw and did behold the glorious age, the passing joys,
The vanities, annihilations, the world to come,
And I had only strength to weep:
I saw this must be done—