I want to write about politics, to expurgate my ruminations into reality as the word, and thereby perhaps come to play a part in the process, but I falter and hesitate at the edge of the board, hesitant of the entire indulgency of the process .
Charlatans have maligned the purity of the cause.
Logic leads in whatever direction we point, abstract engineering without will, so I find I must be careful in who I choose to follow and believe. The more I inculcate, the more I empathize, the greater the internal conversation grows until it sounds like The Wedding at Cana featuring Albert Camus, George Will, Kanye West, Audre Lorde, Richard Wagner, DoJa Cat, Ida Wells, Billy Connolly, Hilary Mantel, Brene Brown, Christopher Hitchens, Kendrick Lamar, Bob Dylan, King David, Beyonce Carter, Plato, Niall Ferguson, William Gladstone, Abraham Lincoln, Golda Meier, Suleiman, Joan of Arc, Harry Truman, Lee Kuan-Yew, Margaret Taylor, William Shakespeare, and Sapho all holding court around the (seemingingly) fully Sam-focused Jesus Christ.
All look to him, and he looks to me, and only his eyes see into my eyes beyond the facade painting,
and yet still I look around at the rest, at the fine wonder (plunder)
and gawp