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House of the Dead, Dostoevsky’s assemblage of his time in a Siberian work prison and his attempt to once again tell something of the human condition, his zeitgeist, spirits within and away.

Trying to pay attention and get through one page of a book again I stop and think/rethink/clink glasses of ice and whiskey no more neat drinks, and question us humans and Fyodor’s need to embrace and explain all society’s people. The reason I like him so much is it feels he does the same things as me and tries to hold onto this world and its people, flaws and foibles, misery and warmth, with this reasoning of our horrid emotions and mistakes. Aging and wisdom should be about some acceptance and understanding we all falter and flounder and flatter our failings. His acceptance and thoughts on the common man, the corrupt man, the strong person and the weak ones is his holding on to this troubled lot and embracing the errs and heirs of errs, he writes of these characters reflecting the world, Russian society, egos wisping through life, to rationalize each of us as a necessity. Life as we know it must encompass all of us and may be you need not love fellow man and woman but understand, try to understand the magic of man.

I feel the need to do this constantly, resist aversion and misanthropic sprees that tempt and please the darker part of me; black solids undulating against bright thoughts till engulfed morbidity.

There is flaw and frailty in every person. Every wisp just recollections of frightened eyes gazing upon a new world with light that beckons and burns. If I am here I am here to understand, given flesh and body and mind to comprehend this evolving vision.

Humans around; sensitive spirits, fools rushing, fading
making due with graces and goddamn
comfortadors
heat-seeking
attaching to others for none shall be left alone
even when they resign themselves to it
even when they give in and fall
nails scraping on bottom pit
raw bloody snap breaks
push on knuckles to rise from the hard and hurt
face heavy
breath heavy
nervous sweat drops on concrete
sound like muted thunder in ringing ears
frail arms lag and flex
weak so weak so sick of weak
self-lock prison crawl for break
eyes cast forever down, see the spots of light
follow, crawl, to crevice out of hole

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