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"attention is the beginning of all devotion." - mary oliver

"the secret of joy is the mastery of pain." - anaïs nin

"whereof one cannot speak, thereof one must be silent" — ludwig wittgenstein

like the tenderness upsets painfully and thus the chest becomes a nest, filled with folly.
every touch of the lips in a flower fueled hell; and cold, cold, cold in hot hot hot: the silence sounds
from breaking to creating from assembled to crushed: how far? of steps? of words? of hugs? of tears?
perhaps it is inane: so much flirting, groping, cocking would have already been done would have already been scripted: love cannot be written.