art-life or the portrait of art as alive

tentatively titled. but it's not going to be even an attempt. because i suspect somehow that the muses opted for silence against those deafening roars of prophets, which prophets?
is it time? and are we dry? i ask myself. are we all that we used to be? every breath a new reaction, every consumption a new reaction, every thought a new breathless comsumption.
figurative speech of a distortive reality. this is.
if the sky cleared, would our eyesight improve, or something else? would you take my magenta for purpur red? which is red? your pulse beating behind the tissues of unspoken desires.
i like speeches. every word uttered a metaphor of us, think about it again, of US. of the perhaps desirable pure intentions, emotions, distorted. listen to me 'laughs'.

written before the turn of the century, green me, olive fresh. again another intention. stopped abruptly.

not much of a secret that james joyce, especially ulysses never ceases to amaze me. the equation nonetheless is of one of perplexity. a meandering plot with no goal, inutterable puzzling sentences which no library holds, grandiose layering of onions.
the poet, the utterer of questions, provider of alternatives, deep waters of the catacomb a sanctuary against the waves for albatross, noble wild. if he raises his hand to cover his halo, let me sigh in envy.
tell me more please. because this is about learning, about those things.

we have fallen into the manhole

being human

to err is human
so much has been said.
does it mean that 'to err' can be considered a defining feature of a human being?
does a wild animal not err. what happens when a panther errs in its hunt. it can result in hunger, or even death. and what happens when a human err. in this sense, a human can err in so many different ways and the result is also a multitude of consequences.
i think i am erring, but it is a strange fact that i am diving into it.
why am i so abstract.