All Those Who Wander Are Lost

The pistols they affect all the women and children and men and non-children. They collected them like individual pages. And they filled their pockets with such applause for it, that any disagreement would be astounding in it's capabilities of coherence. I wished for la petit mort as well. Standing right there, i wished, for my hands, legs and chin to be elsewhere. So that i may quietly sadden myself with the world's idea of beauty. I was so restless. My revolution was restless. But the restlessness came from suffering. One suffering was that i knew nothing of revolutions. Another was that i knew nothing of myself. And another still, unidentified suffering lurked. Which made my sadness multiply like the continuous wingspans of a fly. That i could not care for the whole world at the same time and build fierce, staggering goddammit epiphanies with which to layer my romance with revolutions, depressed me. I have always been fickle. I remember being lost. Always. And i remember staging it often, so that I may learn to live with my lostness, like one lives with the fondness for shoes or a long-standing illness. My lostness, often created an automatic sympathy. It elevated my sense of the current self. It was enough.