Soprano saxophone is not like sex, except for some. Some people mean it when they say the eyes have to be closed. The eyes are willing, but the skin is peak performance prone. It's like that in the woods and in the gowns we wear inside. Our windows need no introduction. They are swimming with scenery of the impractical kind persuading you to stay in and be calm, regardless of distraction. Level best is what we've done. And what we say we'll do, no matter whom we are addressing. When undressing, we tell ourselves we own shells of imperfection tooled to our complete relief. It's evening somewhere, and a fire is keeping someone's front room warm. That would be a place to start confessing what I've been and how I've done the things I have omitted. Sins of commission are the ones we count, but they're not very interesting. It's that sitting on the sidelines thing that starts to wear on people and convince them they can't trust you. All that presidential menace of describing then removing what you said from records. Or the hero thing, where you devote your whole career to having war records expunged. It's all cheesecloth, really. The kind nobody speaks about. A center of some universe that can be quite readily forgotten. It is easy to shape feelings and beliefs and pronouncements, if not pronunciation. Listen to the radio be wrong a hundred times. Listen to your pulse seem to earn the status of outlier, regardless of how hard you work to seem the same as others. It is all a comfort to imaginary someones.

Chalice passed, the threat of resting peacefully, hands newly washed now washed again


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