One waits for results. One wonders is love dead. One's positive she deserves this, whatever this is, because no matter what, this is comprised of the same as shit. Shit has always defined her. Remember owl offal. How that was the fluffy place one first understood "offensive," smelling, forward, but also much-informed by the life studied. One studies life. One marries someone who studies life by killing it. Art is regularly destruction. The idea, death, makes vivid. One says of course but certain events heighten this: birth, tests, taking a crap, blood. It is so so ordinary. One wonders about the ordinary as the road to god. One hates driving. The violence of projecting oneself into the world so fast, so mindlessly, so trusting in laws and the normalcy of what is par. One is not par. One is so far from par that the idea of making par is excruciating. One can't do fifty-five, button her coat, bathe her children. One has been removed from these, will re-enter these. But why? One hopes not only to persevere, but to draw a readable life. White lines, an immense lawn, stones. One believes in the road if not to god, and not to god, than to others, an other, one other-- one. One waits for this too. Results not just results. Proof.