the lost man chronicles
book two: the art of love

obsession is the ruse

Riding along the River gushing slowly, it's flow going the other way, I noticed (perhaps, only again, maybe only today) the rows of dazzling illumination cordoning each bridge passed. There were picture-perfect whites and mellow-yellow lights to last a bit of shining glory through the night, ringing hallowed be your name. The temperature about nine was almost undecipherable, sublime all the same, as 60 degrees or so of breeze eased its way though my hair, with the taxi-window opposite I, opened to let in the sly—incautious wind. I thought and I thought how is it that you had me talking and thinking and thinking and talking, for I can barely think when I'm walking, and I hardly ever win the debates I have with myself, but here you had me doing one in the same. And as the fuckin' fresh air, raced through my hair, I wandered from blame to question less the how, as to the now…what? where and when? It all seemed to me but to be the blessing of the damned. For I would be damned if we do, damned if we don't. Oh, how I hate the choosing! But I will. And I won't, for I have and I will again! And even if I have not, I truly have a lot, for if a I had everything, I would not desire anything, and to want nothing is to not have—for there is nothing less fulfilling than possession; as obsession is the ruse to those who have not.

the art of living the art of living the beginning the art of love the list

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