Auld and knew

Ah, tu ne perds rien pour d'attendre, the wait is always worth it, my swirling little dervish…

 

There was a skirmish, backlash, 

Kyle of Lochalsh, didgery-doo, a gnu.

Whirlygig, thingamagig, help ma boab.

Or was it a squirmish, devilled eels and no can feels after the dos and don'ts, the wills and won'ts, I should her to think in the blink of another I, I, I. 

ô Ragged clause, and something kilt-ered, askew,                                          you!

Phew.

Ten thousand ours and counting, whose zoos oozed flooze?

If I had a plan, would I span more tributaries?  

We hit the light ... fan d'angle

Kwoatting

“To know that one does not write for the other, to know that these things I am going to write will never cause me to be loved by the one I love (the other), to know that writing compensates for nothing, sublimates nothing, that it is precisely there where you are not--this is the beginning of writing.”

and 

 

“I encounter millions of bodies in my life; of these millions, I may desire some hundreds; but of these hundreds, I love only one.”

― Roland Barthes, A Lover's Discourse: Fragments

Translated by Richard Howard.