Apprehensive, fit to be tied

Si le temps est l'essence de la connaissance, et l'abandonment posséder la structure d'appréhension, où se trouve le coeur rempli errance à terminer dans les points de suture de la grotte de réalisme? Où, où est le coeur? Et pourquoi est-il saigne?

I'm rather tired of boys who fain interest in romantic affairs only to become occupied with more important (distracting) matters. All I ask is that where there is doubt, please keep it in your pants. To sum up:
Intimacy: an arrow that shoots toward the end only to be constantly stalled with breath, with air. A paradox, no. Zeno's paradise. (Much better in French. L'intimité: une flèche qui tire vers la fin que d'être constamment au point mort avec le souffle, avec l'air. Un paradoxe, non. Paradis de Zénon.)

I am not a deus ex machina. I only play at one.

The poetry of Robin Blaser has not an ounce of unintended reluctance (unlike my own verse); he reminds me of poetry's effect: the adherence to change, to reconstructing the anatomy of my own heart--musculature, flow, cage.

I am about to explore the concept of eternal return (coined by Nietzsche) as it applies to Blaser, as he references it in his works, the expansive collected poems entitled The Holy Forest.

I am, in other words, preparing for my Masters thesis. Let the exhilaration and exhaustion, the verbosity and self-doubt begin.

this city, with its grave nobility

presented with a mirror, it does not reflect.