My eyelids creaking on their hinges... my soul yanking at its chain... my mouth forming images within their cage... of within me the sun like the afterimage of something horrible... too big to fit through the charred hole from dream... into waking life... making me have, forcing me to have,... oh the bloody blasted nerve...
        ...just when I thought I'd irritated myself for the last time... just when I thought I'd modeled space and time and me inside my bottle and was setting it down... something chips off and pulls everything around it like iron filings or wrinkles on a white sheet...
        ...and a voice I'd hoped smoothed down says that these things that matter to me don't matter... that the question of the extent of the universe is niggling... of the essence, origin and end of things, unimportant... irrelevant... whether because we are ghosts who cannot lift such things... or because exploding stars are too small to see from here, much smaller than a broken tooth... where knowledge, the shadow of truth, is the shelter we seek... from a sun like an ember on a still blue thigh...
 
 
















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