yours is the music for no instrument
yours the preposterous colour unbeheld

—mine the unbought contemptuous intent
till this our flesh merely shall be excelled
by speaking flower
                  (if i have made songs

it does not greatly matter to the sun, 
nor will rain care

...

yours are the poems i do not write.


- e. e. cummings

more shit:  things visual : anal retina // things verbal : diction friction // things i'd rather not discuss : fuck yeah, ennui