Maybe the heart is part of the mist. And that’s all that there is or could ever exist. Maybe and maybe and maybe some more. Maybe’s the exit that I’m looking for.
In the clearing stands the boxer, and a fighter by his trade. And he carries a reminder of every glove that laid him down, or cut him till he cried out in his anger and his shame “I am leaving! I am leaving” but the fighter still remains.
I feel I should try to reveal. When you hit it right, you produce an emotional response in the listener that can be cathartic. When you’re wrong, you’re soppy, sentimental.
