The Fissure

The fissure has been found and been cleansed of all rubbish. It stands independent. Beautiful. Melancholic. Probably a little violent owing to the newfound nascent nakedness. Its clarity now wrings my goddamn eyes. Its emptiness sprinkles pathos like holy-water.

The consciousness of the fissure is a treasure to be had. To be kept wrapped inside ivy printed handmade papers with care. To be smelt every night like an infant's sleeping hair. To be welled up deep within Margarets during spring and fall.

I do not know if I should lay a white garland by its side...