It is not a matter of following all the
steps,
But a way of stepping off the path into
greener grass.
It is not a matter of preparation,
But a way of being comfortable
unprepared.
It is not a matter of knowing what to
do,
But a way of stringing mistakes
together with style.
It is not a matter of putting the
pieces together,
But a way of being whole, despite
defect, despite flaw,
Despite profound empty places in one
life's experience of the world,
Of painstakingly placing my list shred
of sanity
Into my little, black book of
madness–to close it again,
So I can show the world what is left.
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