animal-wise: words to just enough by

"I have always thought that a wild animal never looks so well as when some obstacle of pronounced durability is between us. A personal experience has intensified rather than diminished that idea." ~ Bram Stoker, Dracula

"A word to the wise is enough.” ~ Miguel de Cervantes

Dear Diary [as Diary wildnight]

At midnight I wrote an entry on horseback. But this morning I am afraid to look at it. Who returns with the numbers of such radical sequences? How soon after ecstasy so terribly aimed? I already adore their universe.

In it, the stars seemed to gesticulate the entire time. And yet they were completely likable. I don’t remember how much their distinguishment weighed, but their finer points kept pace with my simple speed. Otherwise, I pretended much too hard in situ: saddled as I was to thronging air.

These are the artifacts, I might have said, and here I may function without certainty.

Yet among the lightning hooves printing names to the mud; what is found but gone. My own going maps a chain of manes; screened and trailing. Still, the efforts of a single breath and the current barriers bother me to ask; what may suddenly become of this glorified ardency? Will it beckon a mysticism or drop like a weapon of a jaw?

Today I cull the sky’s cloth for picture telling and hope the piling of these tethered selections will catalyze a furtive reaction. An oversized fire shirt or a too small heating hat. That would be wonder full enough. Even a duplicate of enough would suffice.

Against the imperceptible all I can see are bare branches: a rough sketch of now.

But this morning your ghost reveals an advantage. Evidenced in letters writ to me by accomplices wrung from banishment—I found—(I have found), late Tudor to Jacobian in tone: the sprawling rooms. You can’t imagine my technical surprise.

There has been a tender keenness to each night’s favoring of each.

This terrestrial point of view must degenerate, or else speak indelicately. So arcades of lost wings disappear in a mosaic of isometric decoration. A trembling (enough) begins just there; a tiny bit mean.

I surmise: Death is about. Everyone’s smiles. Death is about. Desire careens. Death is about, and life.

What a character is an aspect of this character. This is how I found my love for birds killed by housecats is crucial to my decorating sense.

A somewhat flirty clue, I wondered if I should separate out for a later entry, but alas, how summer of love; I decided.

And you, you will always agree politely because. You will always because. Your way to answer me is perpendicularly given to your interest in my code of questions. I don’t need to look into fruit red wounds to know I have atomic proof. No further than this, or maybe a little because.

But I may reply to your lampooning guesswork by playing you back. Handwrite our comical alphabet in different cursives on used paper bags. I'll say I like the brown ones; they go with your nose. And straight away, our practice alphabets will be telepathed in a chest below the floor, to illustrate the foundation of our mutual fantasy.

I do this in spite of the bulk of your unrepentant dye. Nothing goes in the bags. Nothing fits after the ink dries. Down they go.

This kind of thing threatens to get sacred, but try not to balk. I am particularizing my spiritual investments with your trust. Mostly, but then this dream isn't dire.

Inwardly I stash keys as any locks hold, to keep unwanted visitors in superior suspense. Next, in case of certain errant suspicions, I will bet you at charades. Pantomime for you: rust, optic, rotation, bridge, and sinking ship. The verses are more filled with air than we are. I assure you these are a front.

As with any test of our friendship in this game; you must guess all my facts act correct, and they may very well be. Some tension is palpable, but you look simply noble in your borrow riddled slacks.

I also like to watch as I take up arrears. I know what I owe the view.

Despite my distancing, I think the separation between us is dependable. If not now, with luck forthcoming. Though this whole matter is much less frugal than my forgery of it amounts; in hindsight I spend the time of our life.

You are a brilliant paramour for me ever; so unlucky in my trade. I am happier post-nightmare of it to serve you. Look forward, then. Tonight I’ll ring the house with blind corners, around which I’ll hide all the possibilities I can.

Until the current scheme advances; yours.