Incisors too small to chew through it,
Loneliness leading to desperation,
Humans ill-equpiied to deal with souls that can never touch,
Always bounded by their bodies.

A body is a cage for the soul,
And don’t let Foucault,
Or anyone else,
Tell you otherwise.

Life is lived on the edge of happiness,
Ever fleeting and always on the horizon,
Beams of light occasionally lick the edge of the mountain range,
Dancing on the Ocean of Separation
But are gone too quickly and hard to recall fully,
As true passionate love or those conversations where mouths open and consciousness spews back and forth
Vile, absurd, and absolutely fucking beautiful.

Life is a series of meandering streams of thought too incoherent to be recorded properly,
And better for it.