As I land. Into the land of ghosts. With stories of deserts, rivers and guns, denying them. With anecdotes of drunkness, eyes and violence. Bars. I deny them.
Into this room. Trying to support or stand, all the images on the wall. 1940, 1938, 2008. Observing my signature with a blotch, the inscribed doubt signaling nothing.
That nothing. Geist. As I survey that there is no gas, with my eyes--never the nose. As I try. Before the room, the roof in the middle of the city, stormed by images and lack of frames. Towers--yes, I'm lost. Grab a skinned lamb, cut the head, save the guts, and the lack of stench. Count down, with the negation of your belief. "Oh no, don't say it's true."
Rummaging schematically as if there ever was any kind of strategy. From the image the volume from the volume what, what I am trying to say. At the least a few voices, heureusement never enough. Until I halt, mark, and reproduce the missing journal. My book. Hold on.
Not so much the menacing confusion, as the lines and stings of the infatigable sights, gazes, vistas. Still the statue? Drop it, leave the image, or finish consuming it. A little more music and perhaps we can.
To your right, the bookshelves. Take one, read the inscription, read it again, erase it. Better yet keep the mouth open, let the color in, perhaps it will let you rest and the insomnia will be soothing. Keep writing, a few more lines before you cut your finger again. "I stained my fingers with ink" you read years ago, in the time when your hands were perhaps more rough.
"Look straight, even if I come too close." As usual you see only your eye, with a bright circle in the middle. Mortal fascination. "Do it again" you think, while seeing behind (where behind?) the veins over orange and the supposed liquid inside you. "I need to read him in order to go back to dry land" found yourself saying. Leave me my sterility.
A tragic activity, that is, if there ever was any visible ending to it. (Keep writing).
Singing? No, I never did. I just vent.
As I land. No, you're still on the plane, you can see the patches of white below, blotches, squares and flattened clouds. Keep writing. For now.
Into this room. Trying to support or stand, all the images on the wall. 1940, 1938, 2008. Observing my signature with a blotch, the inscribed doubt signaling nothing.
That nothing. Geist. As I survey that there is no gas, with my eyes--never the nose. As I try. Before the room, the roof in the middle of the city, stormed by images and lack of frames. Towers--yes, I'm lost. Grab a skinned lamb, cut the head, save the guts, and the lack of stench. Count down, with the negation of your belief. "Oh no, don't say it's true."
Rummaging schematically as if there ever was any kind of strategy. From the image the volume from the volume what, what I am trying to say. At the least a few voices, heureusement never enough. Until I halt, mark, and reproduce the missing journal. My book. Hold on.
Not so much the menacing confusion, as the lines and stings of the infatigable sights, gazes, vistas. Still the statue? Drop it, leave the image, or finish consuming it. A little more music and perhaps we can.
To your right, the bookshelves. Take one, read the inscription, read it again, erase it. Better yet keep the mouth open, let the color in, perhaps it will let you rest and the insomnia will be soothing. Keep writing, a few more lines before you cut your finger again. "I stained my fingers with ink" you read years ago, in the time when your hands were perhaps more rough.
"Look straight, even if I come too close." As usual you see only your eye, with a bright circle in the middle. Mortal fascination. "Do it again" you think, while seeing behind (where behind?) the veins over orange and the supposed liquid inside you. "I need to read him in order to go back to dry land" found yourself saying. Leave me my sterility.
A tragic activity, that is, if there ever was any visible ending to it. (Keep writing).
Singing? No, I never did. I just vent.
As I land. No, you're still on the plane, you can see the patches of white below, blotches, squares and flattened clouds. Keep writing. For now.
