I returned south after a short respite in Pennsylvania, and realized quite quickly that I was here for some strange reason. I know not what I'm to do any more than when I came, but as I rolled down the street, my mind took to its word arrangements, and those sweet, sorrowing, baby-mama's ellicited a tenderness I wouldn't have known otherwise. There is history here, and amidst the sorrow I feel and perceive, there are greater strands of faithfulness that lace and tighten me to the things I cannot see.

It seems I can become enamored with anything that inspires, and thus, the quasi ghettoes and racial blends of this place draw and keep me still. I spin into such anomalies, and study them until I am able to trace eternity therein. I am consistently struck by sorrow, and the untamed driftings of humanity. It seems they are set always upon the foreground of harmony and order, and I am ever-stunned by the paradoxes that are wed in every scenario of this life.

Evermore, I perceive the proclivity in myself to slip in this sorrow, and akin to my kind, I allow lies to burrow and attach themselves in the created crevices where hopes oozed and evaporated in their want of expression and consummation. The fight is fierce, and this dogged youthfulness rises up and attacks despair, while being knocked down with the same sort of bullheaded tenacity characteristic of youth. I am aging though, and it seems disappointment, sorrow, and despair ought not malign me with such a ferocity as they do, and yet I find myself kicked by them, and as inspiration would have it, I am drawn in, and held here...