As A Possible Lover

Practices silence, the way of wind bursting in early lull. Cold morning to night, we go so slowly, without thought to ourselves. (Enough to have thought tonight, nothing finishes it. What you are, will have no certainty, or end. That you will stay, where you are, a human gentle wisp of life. Ah…) practices loneliness, as a virtue. A single specious need to keep what you have never really had.