Hid for many years
by mask and monstrous lair,
he stirs a voice within her,
wondrous, angelic, but sad bird
she must fly with fellow sparrow,
leave him wanting death, his lonesome piano.
i enjoy a nice old paradox: if a liar tells the truth, is he still lying? and would anybody believe him?
maybe. maybe not.
i am myself a paradox, i am self-conflicting. i may be insane, i may be delusional. but i am fully aware of it.
here is how i reason out: by opposing myself. this is an art. this is my dialectic. i am dave aL. and it's debatable.