The Faroe Islands Of Denmark

They say that embracing your emotions will elevate your craft. I would if I could. But how does one embrace a thing with no anatomy? The instructions weren’t clear. What was it we were supposed to be doing here? Was there ever a goal? It always feels like there’s some kind of goal, but I see nothing but sage and complacency. A stupefying weariness sometimes discovers us under the influence of Venus fondling various body parts and chasing away axioms of doom. I keep trying, keep failing. I can't get enough syntax to create a rhinoceros out of rice. I’ve tried boiling it, stirring it, squirting it, squatting on it, combing it, writing it that way, writing it this way, and I keep getting the Faroe Islands of Denmark. I’ve tried other islands, other nations, other tribes, other geographies, other cultures, other tongues, and everything results in the counterfeit foliage of a mad sorcery called language. Which is ubiquitous, like crickets. The implications reinforce it. It connects things. Assemble, squat in a sprawl of sunlight, you’ll see what I mean. And if you don’t, you don’t. There was no meaning. There was just the Faroe Islands of Denmark. And grebes and pipits and a large Viking sow sucking a litter of piglets.