I live the life of a fool unbound.

I'm uhinged. I drag my feet, finally. I've learned enough wisdom to be selfish. I've quit caring.

Peace is blurry perception and the ignorance not to care.

Problem is I was born with perfect vision. I was born with perfect care. I was born with radar, with an air-traffic control tower, fully-staffed, not just with the best blip-readers but the rookies and apprenticeses and the temps and the paranoid schizos who warn of vectors like wise men warn of wind. Problem is... I'm tuned in.

I'm well-trained to notice the little things. I hate the little things. I use the word hate only in the most specific of ways.

I cherish. I cherish deep and shallow shades of grey. I cherish the potential of Man. Even better is the potential of Woman. Her crinkle, her squint. Her longing to wrangle knowing embraces. I cherish the mind of the woman that finds this sentence simple. Her eyes locked, her pretty blues speaking volumes in silence...

She's a soft wind, a ponderous minx, a steady section of gravity. She's irreparable, she's a beehive, she's a wasp nest, she's perfect.

She begs for answers more than me. But she seeks... she always seeks...