There is a time here. Everything has turned quite flat. But I do not resent the sinister feeling overlapping my worlds. A great whelping worrisome feeling fills me up. And I am encountered one by one by dreams I will not remember. I am a gentle touch. I have left scorched earth everywhere. I am still hungry. I too have lips. They also are chapped each morning from the bitter rinds that dreg from the sea. I cannot account for time. Nor do I wish it. I cannot hear the space or the conviction that will sway you. From me, the reflections have dried up. I have become a foreign presence in my own body. Neither truth nor wholeness matter. But a lingering darkness. The wick of all things.