something

Tonight I told a friend I've never met that thinking the world is magical makes you a burned-out acid head, but in truth I believe that the world is magical, just in a way that I can never tell anyone else about.  When I stop and feel it is entirely apparent, 

but in that way where I know

I might have become too absurd for my own liking.

In that I don't exactly

like myself,

except I do, 

"I do I do I do I do I do;"

look how clever I've become 

to maintain my skillful claw-clings to practicality;

to have achieved this balance

everything is balance is everything

my life is a slow process of 

perfection

whose definition liquefies

when I caress it

just so.