the only perfect shapes are the ones you never release

broken drafts for a personal website, will be inaccessible for serious renovation

to hope the path which carves doesn't falter

and the foot that walks doesn't fade

(the space between intention and execution can seem so vast, but perhaps i may still speak a bridge into existence)

if you don't already know who i am, i fancy myself a writer on occasion, others, a pretentious phony

when i finally lay my cards down, i hope i can give you something worthwhile

YOU MAY NOT ENTER, THE ORB IS SHATTERED INTO PIECES AND HOME IS BUT A SIFTED MEMORY