There is an inch in me that yearns to be a foot. Deep and delicate at once, wide and wise to the wind, the receptive field internally is quite absent to this external force. Or not so, because the truth supersedes nothing when the day's lies tempt so tastily. When I am nourished by wrongness and take no recollection of the peril, the inch in me becomes in, cut shorter still. Lately the three-squares are building towers of torment around my peace, so although my peace is my piece, the climb out into an aseptic world is germane to the fall in. I do not know what will be portrayed and I do not know who I will betray, but I do sense my mouth requesting nothing but the day's leaven. Everything else complicates my understanding. Here the lines are blurred to my perception of good and bad. If I cannot discriminate can I feel no pain? If I cannot decipher can I rejoice in fortune? That is why I want to be a foot, deep. I want to plunge more away and towards all that is and is not me for just one glance of your set-up. If I knew your floor plans, I may not break down the walls.
Broken walls in this sea of the inch. It is all in one dimension.
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