Theres a rift, a chasm, that separates the Socrates interpolaters from the wranglers of western idiosyncratic thought. They that insert nobility into singular thoughts, digress in circumspect, rallying to a point of narcissistic benevolence based on the realm keeper’s whim, the research of angular adjustment to regurgitated philosophy of disjunct introspection. In the cabin, the dead man’s hat, that relic of a portentious brew, hangs on the plywood wall, a decorum of anticipated restoration of never being, and yet always the awareness of the shadow over that shallow grave. Say it to the vulture, my friend. Sing it to the crow, that black murderer. Maraud with the owl in the dark forest of evil. Rembrant’s remains, stew for thought, a capitulation that ended in furious fire, flashes of eerie templates, skewered tendons, writhing, withering. The door feeds light to a mighty fortress in a an otherwise makeshift manic episode of a ne’er do well’s sanctuary. The water’s stains on the cracking walls are…..poetic.- Sinz
