nonsense doesn't require wacky, wily larks for fruition

Pain springs from sensation: perception is weakness, and numbness strength. Your observational tools channel danger first; a flash, crash or lash signifies harm, and instinct makes an administrative veto. A sensitivity to genius, then, finds peril in the most brilliant of intellects--I better understand moths now.

I'm still not sure the academic approach is right. Be that as it may, I recognize brilliance as readily as burns. I also never learn.

This is a cycle. It will never end.

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I delight in secrets: the hiding, and the finding. Common secrets are no good, so I look for the secrets that don't look like such. It's why I don't walk in a straight line--and why I've been accused of stalking. Not that I do, really. I'm just curious . . . among other things.

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My inventory includes an object I don't know what to make of. I didn't ask for it, really. I thought I might like to have one, for a while, but then a friend thrust it upon me and I'm at a loss. It might be radioactive. I'm having some serious second thoughts--but I should either decide to keep it in a lead box or throw it away; as it is, it isn't doing me any favors.

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I've edited this, like, six times now. I'm too sloppy to be a symbologist.