Page 33 - The First Letter To My Lady.

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J U N E 2 0 2 1

I’m ailing. I’m ailing with the inanity of the digital world. It’s

enough to make Gandhi nuclear.

With social interaction all up for auction upon the pulpit of

digital landscapes – it’s a tripwire-d hellscape to ascertain

bubbling personas from their snaking underskins. And my

hands are far from bloodless.

I don’t feel myself lately. I’m in a disconnect with literature –

a torrid divorce. Ornate words – in all their beauty – can just

be manufactured tools at their best, and concealed weapons

at their worst. Ornate words can be laced with bombast.

Bombast that’s just a grenade laced with hubris & coaxed

kajoling.

With this divorced sabbatical with words – what I should

offer is the truth. I remember that time you conjured up a

little game of yours. One of “trading insecurities”, one where

we dove into our fears & our apprehensions. What better

way to know someone after all, yeah? That was the best -

you’re a pioneer - a soothsayer indeed.