frustration is the lamp i'm holding and with it my trained imagination, schooled in finding the beauty and truth that eludes the everyday people when faced with what the world asks of us in even the simple task of entering a room, sees a path we can follow. the world is great in this way - it has been made so that between every a and c there is a b. and in the language this poet thinks in, there is another letter hidden between a and b, and that letter, which i may not name, has a neighbour it shares with b. and on its other side, like every house on the street, another neighbour, shared with a. of course i leave them out when i write these words down, but their presence lingers on like garlic on your fingers after the chopping is done. and like these letters there are small acts, small movements, small changes that, similar to turning a square page into a bug or a swan, we can use to shape the world, our small part in the world, one fold at a time, until it favours us. so, do you have no faith in this, or do you want no faith in this and should i put down this lamp or dash it?