I feel you few nearer than before, in gathering into my heart myself.
Each of you who nears is more friendly now than were so when farther away.
I like to be closer and closer to you from a safe distance. This is my way.
I am sad and silly after my furors of before, please pardon my hatefulness.
Please pardon what is said here, all of it, because it is not what I was now feeling most.
What I was feeling now most was beyond precious, making me to weep so.
It is simple being near to you, feeling your unknown as secure and safe.
Feeling your unknown as absolutely secure and safe, outside what I have now said.
I care if it is madness to feel this way, but such madness I will never relent.
I care if such madness is really not the normal way of life and each living being.
Maybe each too likes to be closer apart than before.
O, it is so lovely to me write like this, even if what I now have said is not what I feel most.
I feel most something else, maybe indeed you, but this writing still is sadly sweetness, almost tart with joy.
If it were colored otherwise than black and white, a yellow of many patterning yellows would be its heartful colorfulness.
And if you stay so nearing apart, more will come of me like this, in these colors maybe still too.
Yellow is heartful because fearful, agonized, trembling – yet also soft, comfy – as paralyzed, static.
Yellow is the heartful radiance of writing in nearness from afar.
Yellow writing is soft and static, because advanced upon with absolute otherness, with its fear.
Or whatever, I am draining the dregs.
