I realize too
that from the precipice of heightened experience or the publication thereof I risk being (somewhat rightly) perceived as arrogant
yet this risk is dwarfed by the actual suffering which usually follows bliss in the form of some malady
like that of everyday existence relying on a job lifting eight tons a day with a sprained wrist
or the simple loneliness of a life spent without intimacy due to too much time spent in autonomous experience and writing
leaving me with nothing but a vague and insistent prayer for mercy ringing from my parched and silent lips
in hopes of recovering some humility on this the other side of the dialectic
yet is there really any crime in a man's post-ecstatic diminishment?
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