on account

the plotless plot thickens all by itself in unobservable forgetfulness: come by when you have a spare moment and we’ll piece together from the grounds of intrigue something that more or less resembles a flashback

I could say more of less without recourse to the connoisseur

surely I can recognise something of worth in something of worth

and yet, to be smitten nowadays, is unheard of, but regardless of a word I continue to be enamoured with concealed memories, set in their ways long before cutting off crusts became popular

this leavened way of loving is hardly ideal as a means of lifting above street level

ah but you can breath easy in the unpromised lands of ‘I will’ where all power ranks alongside the positives and it’s hard to maintain ‘being’ the way expectation lauds – even to wallow in neutrality gives all worries a backhander for their troubles, their trembles, as if being in the wrong place at the wrong time were possible

didn’t you hear alarm bells ringing they say, when there is never any sign of anything hollow to begin with

‘For Whom…’ was I silently being summoned to account?