I've been going through some old stuff and found something I wrote a few months ago:
Life's been well, when I speak of it, well and poor in an indeterminably patterned wave, when I reflect upon it, odd when I attempt to plan it, and banal when I let it flow.A partial substitution happened while I was busy doing other things . . . . the fugue didn’t prove to be much of a veil, and it’s difficult to manage unweildy with grace. However, because of the occasional bouts of giddy dizziness and glimpses of sublimity, the rest is most definitely acceptable.
I imagine a life where I could substitute enigmatic, dizzying, unwieldy and sublime.
Disjointed. My thoughts are disjointed. I crave the smells of chocolate, grapefruit and popcorn, but the tastes of hot pepper and sharp cheese. I wish to be in a fugue . . . . one hazy enough to veil not-yet-attempted transgressions [or, more appropriately, transgressions that may never be attempted should I not have the excuse of such a fugue].
I hope that all those I love are well, and that their lives are [or, can be], in appropriate measures, enigmatic, dizzying, unwieldy and sublime.