Let there be light, and there was light. And that is when creation stopped in the Ia Drang. There, it was only chaos and light. Except for the nights. Then, it slipped back into the dark and then all was chaos.
One thing, not quite the same as the other, regardless tends toward that other.
That young crooner, now dead, warbles on forever in the dark grooves of the vinyl...
The repetition of those acts is not meant to convey that I endlessly sweep and mop – rather, those acts are just signifiers of the things that are endless...
I, too, feel the words as they whisper across my own tongue or move through the sinew of my own fingers through pencil and onto paper.
And of course any man who says he is, with absolute certainty, not at the end-of-life is dilusional. The future is unclear. Ask again later.
Midnight sits thick outside the glow of the streetlamp above my car. Thick, empty, but somehow still swirling with voices and sound and ideas.
...my words and my flesh are both made of the same incomprehensible lie.
what did Puck say? what was it...? ...no more yielding... yielding... to dream.
Leaves 