Clouds of glory tear themselves to pieces from the outside in. I have never been able to love someone or something without making the object of my affections perfect, as if, I suppose, nothing was ever good enough for me, as if I had within me, also rendering itself, some capacity to perfect denied the creator of all things. In fact, the attempt to perfect was a tribute; the loved person would always be a paragon, the loved object would always be flawless. It was as if even my infatuations rotted within from ego, but not really. I need to worship whom and what I loved.
That was how great religions began, with a simple act of homage converted into obsequious addiction. I hoped, as the years went by, to rid myself of so slavish a habit, learning at last to settle for human values; but the yearning has never gone away, not yet anyway.
if you can't stand upon the water i will see you on the ocean floor. when you blink do you only find the misery between the lines? then take my hand and walk with me. come to me, your sanctuary, i'll gladly accept the gift that i've been granted. if you feel fine, then give it just a little time i'm sure you'll contract my disease. look what you've done to me now, you've made me perfect. if you can't stand upon the earth then i will meet you on the other side. when you blink do you only find the misery weighs down your eyes? then take my hand and sleep with me. take my hand i'll be everything to you. take my hand i'll take everything from you. i will seep under your skin. i will. i will hold onto your heart. i will.