I want to write long rambling letters Like Ginsberg, Kerouac Burroughs Stream of consciousness The sea of unconsciousness
But I have no correspondents No one writes letters None of my friends ever have No one puts pen to paper
Texts are ethereal wisps of smoke Letters are concrete things That belong in old shoeboxes Until the words fade into obscurity
I should deliver my letters to the void With no mailing address, no stamps, no nothing Just drop them in mailboxes Like a single raindrop falling into the sea
The words wonβt be trapped In my head or in in old notebooks Or in undiscovered corners of the web But floating out there in the kosmos forever