Today I cried for a writer of children's stories who 'refused to lie to children'. He died. I closed my door, and cried into a smelly t-shirt destined for the wash.

And then, sometimes, I cry for myself.

I am, you know- a harder, meaner person now.

I pretend it does not touch, but it does, doesn't it, after all.

Betrayed.
Marble casings don't work.

A tired nap...and the anxious waking up pre-thought-I'm happy and truly unhappy.

Scar tissue has no feeling.
One protects one's heart. One takes it and encloses it in...marble, see-through marble. It then does its work. It beats, it lives. Maybe it even loves, but when that ends, it does not shrivel up and die, it doesn't break, it doesn't hurt and one doesn't worry about the scar tissue making it ugly.

One hopes that that's the way marble casings work.

'What is real, and what is not real, Phaedrus, need we ask ourselves this question?'

If I did this, what I would do is, cut the affectation out of the style (but not the big words- words are nice, interesting things, should be used).

"...the writing will be spare and lean, the concepts hard, the philosophy old and yet new born. "
No philosophy though, just random afflatuses strung, in all irony, together.


A random digression of inquiry-
A split infinitive is an English-language grammatical construction in which a word or phrase, usually an adverb or adverbial phrase, comes between the marker to and the bare infinitive (uninflected) form of a verb.- Wikipedia
..and is a no-no.
viz. to boldly go where no man has gone before.