The world is hot and I wax colder, and the lines continue, boring and full of childishness and folly and terror, and I wonder just what things might come to in the interim, and the length of days and nights.
The typical old people are here, and the smattering of students and the extreme lengths that people go to in their sleep, in the heat of the moment and the wonder of each sincere night and moment and necessary puzzle, which one might realize as we all stumble from one thing to another.
It is nice and cool in here, the ceiling fan blows endlessly, and the world of ideas and psyches combine in major sense and declines, and the length of each penstroke and baroque queue defined by each major idea. The wonder of things are what they seem, or can become what they might.
There's god above and night by night one looks down on his gorgeous roof, full of all the rantings and tired bellowings that came to bear on what we can see or do in the idea or memory of trees or shadows and full memories of placemats, and each circle comes back on itself to make itself known.
Each major accomplishment gives to itself that which each man can take from the lot, and finds itself in line with what it can see. The world is full of timely detours, remorseless wanderings, and temples and schools, of edgeless thoughts and mindful denials and strong mannerisms and unknown changes.
The way of each curtain denial and the meanderings of thought, and exorcism and exercise and of the source, and the tangent realms, seen and meant to be,
coffee cups on the edge
and each prescient work,
finding itself dislodged
makes a demonic waste
set round on the edge
ticking of the clocks
we make up our minds
and find our sister stations

I find that what I can see is never as good as I might try to make it be, as one comes into his true idea and relation, relating to the coast and the ragged Point Joe crags, and the grass laid out and the dews that silently remain, the exit from the fight and the sense of sneakiness.