"If we wanted to, we could shut these machines down..."

The question?

‘If somebody walks down the rickety stairs of Ivanhoe Station when nobody is around to hear it, does it make a sound’?

Maybe the more pertinent question (though the same answer is relevant) is ‘How do you cure a patient who doesn't believe she’s sick?’

Tonight im going to write until something comes out, so ALL this is test space. Blah blah blah blah. Jacqui, Jacqui, Jacqui. Jacqui when you’re touching my soul in the candlelight. Hamdu-subhaan wallaa illahaa-lillaa.

She says it doesn't hurt, and asks “why should I fear it?” and the terrible thing is that I start to believe her. All I know is that I hate it, a blind hatred – like people's old hatred of Reds or Nazis, one I don’t understand yet almost MUST follow.

I had a good point though, it could become worse. It’s the porn thing all over again; it’s an addiction. You wanted freedom bound and restricted (I tried to give you up but im addicted)

She’s so beautiful.

Sometimes I want out, and I know I’ll feel it at times in the future. You can never have true emotion without feeling the opposite at the same time…but leaving her to that fate is worse then being in the middle of it.

Allahu Akbar, so please help.

Her heart beats to swing time.
Her fingers bend back at the tips.
Her every penstroke a work of art, every figure meaningful.
Her lips are always warm (or cold).
Her smile melts ice.
Her eyes ARE ice.
I kiss your mouth, your back; thats all I need
Slow dance in streetlight [divine waltz]
Jacqui (jaä-kweê) [Fr.] n. To be of imperfect perfection, a being of inarticulatable prowess, to be above description, above words
She has a bump like a mozzie bit halfway up her right upper arm.
Her eyes are low-lidded.
When I watch her sleep, time disappears (it knows when it's not wanted)
I don't want her to goooooooo!
She has a mole just above her right breast
When she looks at me seriously, smile lines appear (even though she’s not smiling).
I love you; grey sweatpants, no make-up, so perfect
Her voice is alto voce.
"When in Rome? Do as I always do!"
CAUTION: Fragile contents contained within
Her life based on colour and form (an artist, no less!)
She sings out of key.
This bed thy center is, these walls, thy spheare
She has a scar halfway up her right forearm where she's cut herself.
She doesn't let me near her open feet.
To swear like poetry.
To laugh first, answer questions later.
To Each his Dulcinea
Her art is white on black, her mask is black on white; but she is a shade of grey I love the smoothness of her skin.
She has other places on her that she's cut herself, but I dont know where they are.
My nose belongs next to hers, and my hand behind her neck.
Her body, perfection.
Im nothing much to speak of, I'm broken in so many places (and I dont think even you can fix it)
A quick glance.
Counting the hours.
She speaks in quotes, though she’s not quoting anyone.
Raw unbridled woman.
She’s quick.
She’s cheeky.
She’s mine (for now), but I'm hers more.
I’ve lost her scent and its killing me.

I am two fooles, I know,
For loving, and for saying so
In whining Poetry

He asks himself; how to make better a world where evil brings profit, and virtue none at all…then he realises the question has no relevance.

You don’t act virtuous for profit.