And Her Soul Out Of Nothing

Against Devotion

Against Devotion It's just the same old raving condolence. The same old wild sympathy pulled up to prove you're not without a heart. The fevered understanding offered from the barstool, from this side of the confessional's grate. The ardent I'm-sa-sorry, the willing I-hear-you, as the gentle samaritan you are inconspicuously leans away from the crazed whisper: My life's so fucked-up. It's just someone else's violent dying. It's just your childhood friends stuck in an oversized world. The crippled talking. The exhausting confiding. The not really caring. It's the simple fact that what's most touching is the angle at which some old roof leans against the sky. The shockingly thin trees, the stunning mosaic of light. The way the stars keep arranging themselves into constellations. The way the moon's always somewhere in the sky. What's most heartbreaking is this rib piercing this lung. That I'm as breathless as this over nothing. Wanting everything bending, layered and resilient: the parquetry, the click of heels like the stove setting itself on fire: My friends, it's our hearts, we should be walking around grabbing our hearts, for what could be more burdened, more efflorescent? Tell me, what's as unfolding, as spiked and as shooted as this, our dissilient heart. ...