is love. Under the burden of solitude, under the burden of dissatisfaction
the weight, the weight we carry is love.
Who can deny? In dreams it touches the body, in thought constructs a miracle, in imagination anguishes till born in human - looks out of the heart burning with purity - for the burden of life is love,
but we carry the weight wearily and so must rest in the arms of love.
No rest whithout love, no sleep whithout dreams of love - be mad or chill obsessed with angels or machines, the final wish is love - cannot be bitter, cannot deny, cannot withold if denied:
thr weight is too heavy
- must give for no return as thought is given in solitude in all the excelle of its excess. The warm bodies shine together in the darkness, the hand moves to the center of the flesh, the skin trembles in happiness and the soul comes joyful to the eye -
yes, yes, that's what I wanted, I always wanted, I always wanted, to return to the body where I was born. Allen Ginsberg