And I felt the universe explode behind my eyes.
The language and thoughts
and sensations that accompany such—
This sea foam fever, this glassy-eyed sickness;
what a beautiful horror! I shiver.
This and that. The shadow of an afternoon.
A Thursday.
Perhaps it was imagined (that time has passed, that it happened at all)
But when I wake up in the morning,
Emptied of the ticking tocking melancholic howl,
I know why this is so—
I believe I know why this is so—
Of course, to say it aloud would be suicide, and the lovers of the love of the fear prefer purgatory, and of course we do what we can to do what we do to maintain, obtain, sustain. I aim—
Yes, I aim!—but not in a fulfilled sense: esse est percipi—to be is to be perceived—a foreign and welcome sensation. But put those hands away, put that look away, before I forget my—
Before it is lost.
Lost...? Yes, lost.
My name, I believe in my name. Perhaps. To crawl to crawl to crawl inside of this warm nothingness that tastes like gold soft sweet afternoons, like
driving
along
the
coast
at
dawn
like stopping at the gas station before the forest like the blueness between 5 and 6 pm. A truly really very steep sort of warmth.
Temporal fears are so beautifully placed.
Saturdays, when I take the train home
through the hazing misting grayness
I am happy