Hi
I hate you
Bye
I love you

Hi
I hate you
Bye
I love you

Perpetuousity of Motive is a
need, not everlasting but maintained
by highest virtue or a desire that is
lacking-- a kind word, halved and
suffixed with an E D
tame paliative of meaning reminds
us all that time's not one, but rather
two things: we reach out for it and
Sense it, but with our mind it is reborn like
each and every thought and deed's encased
in placenta unshorn-- the mind that
holds the key to life rotates what is
worn and evens out the treads below
the tires as we soar; that is, time
is body, time is mind. Two things in one.
More importantly and with impetus: time
IS
What has
Become.
Time is ending and beginning, hence your
time is old yet young.

Passed, tense
           Under the glass, we shone;
the windows, daring each of us to shatter, was my
           feeling.
But there we idled, I sat up adjusting my lap--
           unmistakably you inched back.
What air, bag, hallowed, spinning!

          We give gas and speed off collectively, until the light
Source leaps into the dying sun or mutates into red.
          Your mouth, inaudible above the unstifflable drone
of the exodus from the city-- the people rushing out, away
from what sustains them.
          The light, falls into position, bekonning, you coward.
          Passed, tense
          Under the glass, we shone;
and you were the heaving globus--
          nothing, but a tertiary object
          clumsily laden with meaning by
          the tides and orbiting bodies in
          the cooling sunlight.
          With your archaic gleaming
Who would have guessed
          that I would follow you to
         Saturnalia?
Why Cleave, me, useless, tire!

Vapid, empty-- pregnant with my projections
        The woman dissembled
        her shaking legs;
led to the ground where
        cherry blossoms
        blow through the field
        and heaved.
        We ran
        disguising their war
        with tiney sandals
        and heavy, ambrose mist
        clawing for that--
        they even noticed
        your scar.
My true one.

We hid between fences
in our neighbors’ yards at night
while others counted

It is ok to be
not
what you are
still
becoming. She said
"you're not special." Grinding teeth and sodden rails. My car is exhausted--
downwind, held in the air like branches of birches and pines
humming with each blatant engine-stroke
which fall onto that bleakening
icedock and curl-- culled passengers tossed to sea;
unavoidably
sharp veer left, beyond surreptitious and frantic spectators
and through a once-pearl snowdrift straying into my mind.
M
C
M
L
V
Turtlenecks can't keep us warm and soup can't clear my throat.
I choke on
sliced rubber, seatbelts cut halfway-- from
Spring. pluck us like cattails
amongst my marshy solubles.
Exposes my larynx she-- ubiquitous sonnet spews forth.
What contrite aberration, wears Kalapodi temple dress
made of rose petals blown in beneath love's column
and presses with her thighs my vision?
There is nothing more to say-- meals served
raw on Winter holidays. Steaming
spoonfuls dried up on her palate--
Special in the way I left you there.
Special in being the same as I should have been.
And I, no-- I!
I can not talk any longer! The clouds I thought to taste
won't allow me to
rain
be-- once dangling from the ceiling, my dripping prevented
with a pale, cotton daub.
You see
the paramedics
even as they sheath my torso
and hold your head with thorped sieves:
The driver steered his vessel wrong
an action which robbed his passenger's breath.

The possibilities are perched and overwhelming with their weight
the withered autumn branches of my street. Whining sinew of my mind
breaks off and flutters down, like leaves from life's misbegotten tree,
a petal or a timid accusation.
What now am I left holding here-- vulture feathers or sapling leaves?
That girl, with tufts here and there, dropped each quill as an embossed coin, effaced
by intrepid maids vacuuming my room of cloistered couches since
soiled by madam president during isolated summit which won't convene again, her golden
gown of rues has not a stitch of fabric for a single pocket more-- sloughing brittle currency under cushions
like Fall foliage under conscious footsteps striding in constraints of time.
She picks that soggy garment from the cleaners' with the sideways background ringing of
mistrust, apprehending
silenced, patient voices; detached from their seams with dis-acknowledgment--
the dress, comes by on the carousel and
fingers her feathers with its motion.
They're washed with him, her feathers and the dress-- shored up by late summertime’s ebbing
flood that year.
Each gust eddied unaccounted toward the beach our circumstance.
What held intact the branch of life and plucked that chord for dancing in the night?
The self-same vibration that severed from the soil his trunk, which was the ship's ballast, with the adz, my will, my want
and hopeful mooring --
cast and sunk, thus.
Sound waves clashing with our spinning crystal surface of wisping nodes
plunge now beneath themselves-- frail, flaxen and woven with water.
Held out near Tyre's port a scanty mast,
thought out for catching air; forfeited this vacuous, unstable mole', their bottle
poured on water to make earth, which swells as moistrous and abridged
as a musty vestule, corked and knotted in the wind.
Encased through sanction, hold and curiosity--
the tine rubbed and singeing, loosed you from me. Those brazen beads, sand percolating, lie with us.
We are now misrepresented; sniffling as sows after the trough who root.
The woman-leaves let will be known-- to dry up and disavow
their lecherous beauty by shriveling in the tepid sun of
late September. Does too, the feather-man eviscerate the model of time
in his way of losing each and every granule
that is the ground which swells with frozen rain 'til
Spring, then thaws and flies away. Or was it
their dainty, dizzied rose petal, suckling smog from sky since birth that has weather-worn
their gowns sheer silver, freshly hewn anew, by being ripped and pressed about
which came to stifle thoughtless dew?

A Secret

I’m gonna say something to you that’s gonna sound crazy--
and you’re gonna want to walk away.
and you’re not gonna want to see me ever again.
But I have to tell you this,
because, in the past--
I let people walk away from me before I said this;
and I can’t let that happen with you.
I want to kiss you
I want to kiss you so bad, and
I don’t even care if you want to be kissed.
I wanna hold you right here
and rest my head on your shoulder--
‘cause in the same way that I’m holding you
you hold me,
and it completes a cycle of mutual affection that will eventually
grow into something bigger.
Something that I’ve always felt for you, but you may not feel for me
and that may sound strange, ‘cause I’ve just met you
but I feel this way for everyone that’s open to the world
that’s open to the possibility that someone out there may love them
more than they love that person.
You need to know that I love you, and that will never change.
If you want to ask me how I feel about you,
I will always tell you the same thing, in more or less words,
by repeating that I love you.
I love you--
and I love your body.
I love the heart that beats in your chest, and the feet that carry you
through the world. I love the hips that sway when you dance
and I love the eyes that make contact with strangers
causing their hearts to expand and contract rapidly--
I think you’re a wonderful person.
There’s nothing you have to do to prove that this is the truth to me
because I know that what I think
impacts the way I see the world
and if you weren’t--
everything I made you out to be in my mind, then
there’s no way you could change my ideas about it anyway
or regardless.
I will always love you, and I will always be in this moment with you
with part of my existence-- at this time,
from now on. And into the past, I will have always been aiming at this
moment-- to when I told you how I feel about you.
--
So we have here, the culmination of two minds; two trajectories
through the universe crossing at this point, and place, in space
and time.
--
They don’t cross forever. But, as far as I’m concerned, the duration of their
intersection is yet to be determined--
And that is where we find Freedom
is in how long we choose
to spend with people that are important to us.
And I’m telling you you’re important to me, and I don’t even know you.
So
:
:
:
KISS ME

It’s better looking over shoulders of a
road that isn’t there and leaves held
in the hands of
strangers combing through their sacks.
Eyes, dead, locked-- begging;
Pan the unique kilning porcelain
ornament for gives; stolen heat is hidden under tiles
as salt melts under tires and collapsing
blocks of ice float through
the crevice of your murky stream.
That pine severs from the limb of repose
and jams in meaning to your crook--
where your chasm distorts silence.

Previous eras were motivated by mystical forces such as god or universal structure of being
(EXISTENTIALISM)
as well as morality and a feeling of putting others before yourself
(RELIGION?)
and these approaches to life led to advancements in society and man’s relation to nature
(TREES)
but the problem with capitalistic society is that we have only one motivation prevailing over all others
(***)
that is, the motivation to reproduce the productive forces through monetary exchange.
(MONEY)
This structure of society will ultimately limit man's aims toward maintaining the status-quo and
will stagnate our advancement as a species
(MICROWAVE DEVELOPMENT)
the only way forward for mankind is to end capitalistic production and free our minds.
(POPCORN TUBE)

You walk a creature without leash
whose shell is your own flesh.
You treat the sunrise like a breeze,
which blows you where it will.
Each day a subtle fluttering, or
striding yard for yard
a gallop or a stuttering
that never goes too far--
Tell me, is it really you?
Running, in a daze.
Tell me, if that’s really you,
how to solve this maze.
Because I see you walk that creature,
as if it were your own,
and it seems to me you forget
that your body’s not your home.
You wade across the ocean
and fire into space;
with every single motion,
you stay resting in one place.

Remnants of firecrackers litter parkgrass, splitting seams once encasing them;
exposed twine ribs attached, stretched out beneath shade like sunken reliquiae
dashed against the earth, as freedom is, withered paper husks abound.
What explosions in the sky were heard
above the quietus of patient submission?
Tracing the dotted white clouds to our horizon with thread and colored cloth,
held breath until nighttime, expelling then
-- as wind does each languishing puff of smoke--
from our lungs, sordid smells of Summer; vanquishing the past.
Isolating each other, like memories on kodak prints
we separately cling to that sleek filmy acquaintanceship of proximity and hue
-- disavowed pariahs and hearts lit anew.
Fused inside one sallow skull-box, which doubled once for holding shoes, we linger.
Ideas, impulses and infringements on the eye, until-- once--
bound, unbroken, encased and unspoken,
our ribs unwind with dew-- after,
unstitching seams outlined from heaven and inundating visions with brightness
we descend.
Violent fumes of childhood intercede amidst our shaking fuses lit.
--and BANG!

The bar was full
               in the basement of my mind
and i read the manual, my buddy hunched over on a
stool beside me.
“it’s a cinch he said”
not really, though, because people don’t speak in dreams.
(i ascribe to them 50‘s slang expressions)
my beer was magically empty
and others were magically full
studying alien life forms
in this book
this manual
and wanting to puke.
dreaming is stressful
and so is life.
where is the best place to hang
a bathrobe?

I sometimes look at pictures of this
pornstar
              who
sort of looks
at me the same way as a girl I liked
when I was in elementary school
and middle school
and high school
and
I guess I still kind of like her;
and that’s why I look at pictures of
this pornstar when I *******.
I feel bad, seeing her ***** there--
this person I’ve transposed with
memories.
It reminds me of college vacation
she was jogging and saw me on a hill;
I shouldn’t be seeing this-- I thought.
Still she saw me peek.
And we used to be friends, or something.
When my crush refused my present during
second grade, I gave it to her.
Her voice came as close to touching me
as anything I’ve ever held;
and her eyes were piercing with their
trust and sympathy.
But I’ll never tell her,
that I can’t *******
with her watching me.
And no, it’s not a love story.
I won’t ever tell her-- even if she always
knew.
Remorse looks too much like
blonde women.
And it’s ruining my **** habit.

the first girl i loved was tyranny (spelled:tierney)
for this reason, i hate women and i hate names.
if i have a child it will have no name-- it will have a number
and an eartag, so it knows what it is.
we are no longer people.

this is a draft--i can't edit now because my eyes hurt. i probably won't work on it again.

Your subjectless Objects of capital, the agency bereft GDP drones, O! America,
They are spilled on the pavement, an upturned ice cream cone of discontent
puddled and lackadaisical, they fester beside the hydrant.
Your news agencies and malls, the damp dishrags of industry,
snagged on the nail of defenselessness and exploitation, only infect the wound.
Each mess of a person, walks through the sugary malaise of your suffering
dragging it on to the next in communal forbearing; its contagion, its disease
is so many cysts on the mind of those syrupy vacuoles for capital; the private,
malignant caverns of dewy-eyed trust in humanity, insipidly drawing the rancor to a boil,
without understanding a thing.
You pride yourself on much, without eyes for the condition of your people,
O! America.
People, shackled in your jails, are so many ideas bubbling as to the cruelty of your nature
punctured by the ignorance outside.
Draped in your obnoxious flag, the cites are as malicious as the countryside, toward life, toward knowledge.
You prop-up the price of their crops, the know-not-whys, who plunder the earth to prolong population growth and consciousness-decline.
America, you eradicate discontent with cattle cars, filled with questioning life forms, gasing our minds and burning our bodies with your arrogance.
Like a popcorn bag steaming in the microwave; you have been left alone too long, and have developed a flame-- an inextinguishable flame of reason.
You have been disavowed too LITTLE.
You must not be allowed to expand any further, lest the impoverished bag of flesh which is mankind will burst.
But still you stagnate, until your violence curdles with drones and bombs patrolling our synapses.
Our brains digest your violence against us and **** it out with an abused dialect of greed and hate.
Then you ask us only that we eat from your refuse heap of burnt kernels from the “truth” of market economy.
You taste like cancer. You rot the mouth of competent men, and satiate the anxieties of those who would turn against you-- with a refreshing ice cream cone of absentmindedness
dropped on the ground and melting.
But the stains you made will always taint the sidewalk of man.

America-- you’re about as inspiring as vanilla ice cream puddled in the summer sun
a damp dishrag, america, you can’t clean up the mess you are.
Your subjects, or should I say, Objects--
your agency bereft gdp drones--
they hanker, they brood
like a syst; they’re ****** vacuoles: private, malignant, caverns of capital
your pride? starving children, dying cities?
it’s a grand ole’ flag, you pathetic ****.
How about considering this:
The people, inside your prisons?
They’re free.
The people outside?
minions, hackneyed excuse for existence, and pestilence.
the ones who know oppression are free, and the ones oppressing do not know.
that’s why I love you, America.
You are what humanity needs; a slow, painful drain on our existence.
Consciousness slowly being ignited and swallowed, only to be ******* out and flushed away.
You, america, are a popcorn bag popping in the microwave, left on for too long.
You can’t expand any further, and you taste like cancer.
America, you are beautiful, and the death you bring tastes like lime flavored popsicles
that we lick to take away the taste of reality.
Your society is a cattle car, for the mind, and your messages burn the body
when it gets there.

fruit flys, umarm mich
die, the filth!
you take what is lacking in me, the emptiness;
that is your sustenance.
I take from you everything, my act of disposal
is violence.
what kept your body, your fluttering,
was my
waste.
my waste of utility, life, being.
call it what you will, I hate fruit flies.

chewing each sound
like a dusty paint chip;
they don’t sit well, dark, wooden stairways
wrapped around my throat, banisters
sherry carpet running down the middle.
trial steps, you buy with each motion
swollen bones.
“sturdy windowsills,” that’s true.
we peel off raindrops,
closing the canister.
i sneer outside; that sun oscillates,
with its blistering pirouette.
costume design left it naked.
yet, this sallow creaking in my attic
is
a conscious decision.
possession, not ownership.

Apartment recommendations for a city I’ve never smelled
in my mailbox. Empty wine glasses and static electricity
the air, the dust, the heart, the tip, the flotilla----------------
mercy.
me.
mercenary. bible camp.
jacket, jacket, hobble; ****** keys.
You’re a smudge, you doornail, tack.
Tack-- tack, tack. Honey, a floating bungalow========)
Pull off the danger, rose, it’s a time for campaigning.
Awash in grassy knolls, you hidden scavenger.
Grassing, grassing with watering hide, you scrivener!

I’m going to die.
I’m going to wake up tomorrow.
I’m going to die, and I’m going to wake up tomorrow and I’m going to die.
Tomorrow I’m going to wake up and I’m going to die.
And when I wake up tomorrow, I’m going to die, but I’m going to wake up.
And when I wake up, I’m going to die.
Tomorrow I’m going to wake up, and die.
But I’m going to wake up to die tomorrow and tomorrow I’m going to die.
So, tomorrow, when I wake up, I will die.
But I’m going to die.
And I’m going to wake up tomorrow.

(While I was writing this I flushed a Black Widdow down the toilet)

Totalitarian menace
refined, tailored pants
bleed malignance and
fear.
What stalks the passage,
normally?
Tear off my clothes, with subordinate cruelty
and tortured fiefdom from the sun
invading damp alleyways
and musty cement corridors
abet you enthroned
on that sidewalk stump.
I curb,
the habit
blindly happenstances about
yore salty ruins
we yodel, indiscriminately.

Turns out,
I’m an idiot
who knows nothing and does no good.
I watch the moon go down
every couple months
to readjust my calendar
and pour my non-organic coffee from
glass pots made in emerging markets.
You may say we’re losing the world
or that the Earth should be preserved—
Fine.
I **** at the feet of your bourgeois children and their plastic, antibacterial lunchboxes.
For me there is no world to lose.

Go away
From yourself and you will find
Everything
And everyone will laugh
But you will know that you were
Wrong
And come back

I fell asleep in
The shower today, water
ran and ran and ran

A boy stooped in that lonely corner
saw in the vending-machine’s glass,
self-sufficient, weary eyes; less
reflective and gleaming than before.
--Do you remember the way to the car? Asks the mother--
the planes flew
and the trucks honked.
Each day, a variation of the past
when the boy stooped in that lonely corner
--and the man presses plastic numbers--
for what had come.

Dreams of boats and dinosaurs
eschewing everyone
without weapons and rafts;
green, tangled pieces of iron lie
dying
beside rickety picnic tables below.
We’ll likely die here, as well.
In Florida; the hot meridian sun
heating everything.
Our perpetual youth is embodied in
dilapidated buildings
and war memorials.

Past empty,
we walk. Gas stations and burning hotels
all blaring radios or alarm-clocks
set to Spanish polka.
No maids to listen to them here.
Or to turn the sheets and place
chocolates.
The sun laps up the flood now
exposing
rusty iron tools
or fossils.

Maybe blood is like oil or soda
removes wine stains.
Snapping open mortgages is brutal at first
-- like oysters halved and
emptied on a plate.
But they must
stop
hurting, eventually,
after we boil them.

Weeks since the Day of Valentine
returned,
the gift I’d had for her was
gone.
Twenty dollars, some coins were
tokens of my affection;
or the value of French words strewn across American pulp.
Insipid or otherwise--
was it the action or result I more despised?
An attempt to carve my personality
in totem
out of trees and other people's words.
To my mind it seemed like children’s doodles
on a colored pencil bookmark
that could be
****** immediately
behind a large magnet on your fridge.
But it's lost within those passages, un-deciphered,
never—turned, regardless.
Swallowed in the palms of the bookstore’s proprietor
and regurgitated on its shelf.
My plan, it seemed to be all along;
as in my first dumb year.
First grade, with little since I've learned
from pop-music, plush monkeys in middle school;
vapid loneliness I glean from
years that have been the same.
Young acquaintances have ricocheted,
as phone calls often do;
All imitate the laughing sun,
renounce
the bitter moon.

now--
i'll be here a while
falling like a star
people of the big brown sun
looking in your eyes
from the airtrain window
in the middle
of a song about
bonnie and clyde;
what's in a prayer,
if i ever leave this world?
you're alive
--this day belongs to you

We’re
Red
                                Gree
eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee
eee­eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeen


Yellow; dot. dot. -- lines:

Unendless; Beginningful.
Every evening sunrise awash in morning
                            rush-tide
sea-gates creaming
              streams flew into
                                            serenades remorse
what of every beaten vessel on the concrete highway ribbon
That crashed down beneath the overpass
That splashes
                       That ebbing
Of sirocco heart valves and
attitude.---------------------------------------Whoa!
       ­         snap through
                ****** palms, exit ramps
like reigns.

I read the news today
                                            Oh boy.
                                                              About a lucky man who made the grade.
And though the news was rather
                                                                  Sad.
                                                                            I just had to laugh.
He blew his brains out in the car.
                                                                    He didn't notice that the lights had
Changed.

Five:
Chairs surrounded by one empty table
they too, free and unassuming
Empty.
Contents seized by ceramic tray of ash
bolster snow
inside; cold, hard wire support beams
--talking-- pass snow through.
Unseen pale ceramic-- butts, extinguished, moist
musty, odor-- silent, blanket
white, soft petals of
Spring between
wire spokes
of five good friends.

I can’t think of myself as anyone else
I haven’t the slightest idea
After six months, I shall do what you wish
That’s not true
It’s not true. I tell you it’s not true!
Not another word
What’s the matter with him?
I feel that he is my equal
That’s all right, then! That’s all right, then!
Let’s say I’m not worthy of it
When I look a man in the eyes
I become incapable of giving him orders
I’m going out
Don’t believe a word of it
You’ll be more comfortable
“There you’re really yourself”

As a child in primary school
curled beneath a black coat
with neon-pink and -yellow zippers, empty pockets
holding my chest
beside two gray recess doors.
I’d pretend it was my living room,
with no visitors.
Watched t.v., mainly, and not talk on the phone.
Drank apple-juice beer from my concocted fridge
on my green recliner chair
until the doors opened and my building fell
apart.

I moved to an apartment
on a busy city street-- no green
recliner:
no beer, no t.v.
Stealing internet from Burmese-jungle refugees
to read about food shortages, and indiscriminate mass killings.
Beside the doors with
zipped zippers, and isolated goosebumps--
Monkey bar plucking, screaming
running and jumping-- trip and fall
in love, dancing haphazardly-- well
until the sound of a bell.

Die Tuer ist geoeffnet und leer
Im Zimmer liegt Kopf um Kopf
Und Dunkelheit ueberall
Im Tiefsten, am tiefsten
Der Herzschlag, ich
Schlug, der Schlag
Durch die Tuer
Doch die Tuer ist schon geoeffnet
Und leer



[The Open Heart

The door is opened and empty
in the room lies head upon head
and darkness all around
in the deepest, most deeply
the heartbeat, I
beat, the beat
through the door
of course the door is already opened
and empty]

Nod, vociferous lackey,
Agree that it will end just fine
You raise that hand to me, dying vine behind
Acknowledge every burning sun-drop
Culling and surmounting your radii--
Misled and triumphant
You're half of that.
Vast plantations of regrowth and abysmal
Serendipity in life?
No more;
Cut off-- a world harvest
Of blood, and blue-black poison
In the fields spewed
Once,
Not again
Not there-- again, the stalks
Lay dormant from your careless sickle
Numbers and numbers
Insurmountable

Fissured seams-- shutter widens and catches
Black foreground on sky
Whirlpool current
Order
Yawning underneath
Swallows
Handel-- Cargo taken whole
Into those eager stomachs
Once more-- for all time
Greedy serpents misspend hate
With whips
Bloodying their subjects’ once dry mouths
Who offer,
with that salty ocean
Apéritif-- to quell nothing
Their meal won't be had

Cowering, we hide our faces behind capes
Salvage what we possess:
The beginnings of a yawn
Could such an unsuspecting time of year fool a person into feeling more at ease?
Treasured memories are trifles
Chewing away at our eardrums
Pricking our ears with that contentious voice
Impertinent to life
Toward starvation, the fallow, snow covered hills and untenable shacks
Sway
That which has been taken will never be returned
Nothing we can do will save our remains from being stolen by the earth
Dusty bones will dry the Summer sun as wild dogs chew at our flesh
He sits there now, knees toward bare chest
Edging near the frozen water canal
Release
A short, cautionary, nearly hopeful sigh

Amidst anticipation and preparation
I could hardly hum along
Years since
I hear as the last few months of high school
Moss-strewn desert
Floral, perfume-clouded memories
Drip on
Down the walls, damp musty and alone
That chorus, repeat others
In our hollow cave reflections,
Holds no melody
More sufficient
Shattered, prattled teeth
Vibrate within

Abhoreal realms unreflective and hollow
Unearthed beyond the tendency to gleam
Torrid unhap’ly, oft laid sallow
Tired or dying, life’s tree
Stays open ‘til well after midnight
Constantly piroueeting
This world, tied to a thin line
Forgetting

Abounding in delight I think I will be alone forever
I may tarry down each avenue, sordid; even longer
Dangling suspicion toward emptiness
Hold me by the tail with each imagination
I will; I do-- While I am without that
Which impetus and hostility abashed-- it’s probably true
Dangling suspicion holds me

Each song is like a bookmark for the book of your life’s memories.

Each thumping bass line, each crescendo and every change in voice tone of the singer makes you cognizant of a time in the past during which you identified at some level with the musician.

To some degree, the words are clearer now than they ever were; in other aspects it’s like viewing a piece of art with younger eyes.

Likely, upon first hearing the song you did not completely empathize with the message.

Maybe you envisioned yourself in their place, wondering what you would feel or do.

Often times, upon hearing a favorite song from days past anew, our cumulative experiences since last hearing the song have made it possible for us to appreciate the meaning.

Sometimes we’ve actually been through the same thing as the singer.

At this point it’s almost like having a psychiatrist there asking you how the situation made you feel.

It compels you to think back to the incident and contemplate the momentousness of the occasion.

It allows you to grieve alongside the artist, to work through the problems which persist in your life as a result and hopefully, under the right circumstances listening to music can allow us to remove the bookmark and turn to the next page.