turning so many people into poems that sometimes I forget to turn them back
Whenever she talked aloud, it felt as if she was pouring the stream of micro-fine paradoxical observations riddled with qualifiers against the sieve of a language that merely allowed a crude level of expression and conformity to binary oppositions, to be considered aesthetic to the listener. On writing, such deception of style over substance was more difficult to overcome. Each infinity of categorization upon categorization could not be expressed without some level of settling for less precision.
Such is the lie of sensory beauty that is empty of innovation but expresses less profound truths for the sake of being better recognized.