Tonight I have realized—or, in the morning sun, clear and cool—my preoccupation. Lifted fog self-settled, blinding, turning all to vague. Words like music wound down my spine. I am indirect. I am not myself; I do not project myself. So much do I desire to be seen, to be recognized—each time I tremble were it so. You are not a crowd, not a sea of eyes for mine to look over. With your words you paint me perfectly. I cannot escape, cannot morph into what I wish to be. No longer do I feel the need—no, no: this is a lie … always I will, but for your power; this power, I do not know, do not know the limits of life or myself. But, you see, I felt at ease. Immediately I seek the false ingredient, the big error. Correct is incorrect: correct is temporary. It was private. Now sealed away, now—where do I go from here? Where do I grow from here?