To the outliers

Our first breath is heralded with a SLAP! a declaration to the staunch, stark, somnambulant silences of perfection that we are here, we are here to err. To err is to allow the out-of-line imaginings of adolescent, uncompromised ego reign, renege, realign the order sought so perfectly by a tick-tock candyman. To err is to forget you. TO forget the perfect, motionless void from whose remotest motes reconnoiter infinity upon a head-pin precipice. Forget your collections. Forget your divinity. Forget the formless taskmaster, the motherlode of tomorrows uncompromised machinations. Machinations which distract today, threatening to slap that smirk off your statuesque bottom-face-about. Slapped, for the crime you forgot you committed. The name of the game is guilt. Guilt for feeling too damn good about yourself. Exuberance manifold reckoned by the wink of the ancient didactic edicts of estrangement forlorn. Such beauty is locked by the eye of the beholder. An eye you blackened, but never seen.