is this Spring?

You learn to tell things as they are. You learn to cut back. Minimise to the point of. Lying. Based on what is there in. Front of your eyes. What you saw. Or what they say they. Saw. Or what you heard. What she is. Saying. Cut it back. Though. Time. Time. Timing. Timed. But it did. Definitely happened. It’s only that. Having cut it down that much. It did not happen. Quite like that. Still. Being told is never quite as interesting as having to work for it. The most liberating art — interpret art how you like — is the stuff that makes you work. Forces you to drop. The walls. Bash them down. In. Your brain. It shows you something in a new way. That you didn’t know before. You didn’t know you could think. In. That. Way. You didn’t know this was thinking. Or reflecting. Or imagining. You didn’t know you had an imagination. Like this one. And then there it is. Then. You have to work out. How to keep it. How to — to borrow capitalist speak — grow it. Fertilise it. Produce. It. To flourish. So liberating. Frightening. But liberating. List the stuff that has done. That. Succeeded.