It's sublime, to be sure, sometimes it's subliminal, sometimes it is a blessing, sometimes it can be a blessing. But right now, it's too much, too many inches too much in too many inches to be this much in. Rain. Ghost in a rain, ghosts in the rain. Surely overwrought, it has wrought much, it has wrought enough with the iron, for the iron, by the iron, earthen, of iron. It's enough now. It's wroth right now. It's a wraith in the woods; vengeful and full of wrath, wrathful on the road to vengeance. Falling in love with books. This rain is a slattern now. That's more than enough. The runestones you gave me, try as I might but rubbing them together is no longer fun. Runestones that you had given me, I am rubbing them together as much as I can but they are no longer exciting me. So how can I stay excited? Your paintings do not glisten for you, it's a shame, they no longer heal me, but embrace that shame. There are other ways of poisoning a painting, there are other ways to poison the paintings. The moon is not looking on. Your painting of the wolf is not blue anymore, but it is still hungry and the moon is swollen. This dream is too wet and the nightmares are dry. All of them. I woke up from my dry nightmares, today, feeding on the nightmares from my fodder. People are people, people are still people and you can't escape from them. Just like this rain. Make them disappear inside you, but don't make more of them. Make them vanish, make them vanish in the rain. Rain upon rain. It's eternal. This Rain is Eternal. It's not about anger, it's about disappearing. It's about the quiet. It's all quiet inside the womb. It's all soft inside. Quietly, I am falling in love with books. I am not angry now. I have my rain, my bullet, my ground, I have my tea, my words, and my music. Not my sea. I am not angry now. Words sans muses is the best thing. After all, the actual writing is done somewhere between making tea and not writing. So. I am disappearing but without anger. For. This a war I must paint.