RANDOM I  

Buried deep in the paucity of things, obsession.
A sickness. A glut of sweet smelling flowers an old woman
collects around her angry face. She was witness to the 
      planning of perverse campaigns.

Armies are flying from the wasted crowds;
bitterness runs from the expression of bitterness;
bitterness is the great demand of things.

Dispersions occur. Passionate arugments about who really
loves the good. The arguments lose compassion for the lost;
the wounded flow like rivers of ancient insects into 
       the bowels of the city.