At some point, even the greatest misery begins to fade. Life, or what passes for life, plods on in it's own unending weary footsteps, and somehow we plod along with it, if we stay lucky.
If ever again we happened to lose our balance, just when sleepwalking through the same dream on the brink of hell__ valley, if ever the magical mare (whom I ride through the night air hollowed out into caverns and caves where wild animals live) in a crazy fit of anger over some word I might have said without the perfect sweetness that works on her like a charm, if ever the magic Mare looks over her shoulder and whinnies: __o! You don__ love me!_ and bucks me off, sends me flying to the hyenas, if ever the paper ladder that I climb so easily to go pick stars for Promethea__t the very instant that I reach out my hand and it smells like fresh new moon, so good, it makes you believe in god__ genius__f ever at that very instant my ladder catches fire__ecause it is so fragile, all it would take is someone__ brushing against it tactlessly and all that would be left is ashes__f ever I had the dreadful luck again to find myself falling screaming down into the cruel guts of separation, and emptying all my being of hope, down to the last milligram of hope, until I am able to melt into the pure blackness of the abyss and be no more than night and a death rattle,I would really rather not be tumbling around without my pencil and paper.
The Book of Promethea
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If ever again we happened to lose our balance, just when sleepwalking through the same dream on the brink of hell__ valley, if ever the magical mare (whom I ride through the night air hollowed out into caverns and caves where wild animals live) in a crazy fit of anger over some word I might have said without the perfect sweetness that works on her like a charm, if ever the magic Mare looks over her shoulder and whinnies: __o! You don__ love me!_ and bucks me off, sends me flying to the hyenas, if ever the paper ladder that I climb so easily to go pick stars for Promethea__t the very instant that I reach out my hand and it smells like fresh new moon, so good, it makes you believe in god__ genius__f ever at that very instant my ladder catches fire__ecause it is so fragile, all it would take is someone__ brushing against it tactlessly and all that would be left is ashes__f ever I had the dreadful luck again to find myself falling screaming down into the cruel guts of separation, and emptying all my being of hope, down to the last milligram of hope, until I am able to melt into the pure blackness of the abyss and be no more than night and a death rattle,I would really rather not be tumbling around without my pencil and paper.
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