She

[Sepia]

He
He
He
He
I
He
He


He tries to see. He tries to see, he tries to see himself. From the inside, from the outside, he tries to see with his naked eye, with his third eye, with his dreaming eye, with his living eye, his dying eye, he tries to see with his good eye. He tries to see what others do not, he tries to see how this world is built up, how his world is built up, he tries to know who he is, not knowing if he wants to know.

He tries to become someone he isnt because its the most standard template. He does this knowing he has become what he hated, when the first bricks of metathought were lain, laid put the foundation of what we became. This is his being, it is where he began and he realized it then as he remembers it now, not where he imagined ending up and no revising of the original thought, no process, only elimination, no hearts squeak as he pass them by

He tries to prove that he is no-one, he tries to die a silent death among the countless other wageslaves, he tries to be less pretentious. His death like their deaths are not silent but as the poet said you die so slowly that you think you are alive and death is on no ones mind. He doesn't have to pretend hes jolly, hes been good at that for too long, it feels ingrained, taught but not in any conventional sense, more like crows feet trying to open

He sees her and he knows something old has stirred, deep in a forgotten sunken city. He thinks about magic, he thinks about two paths and the inevitable third, the impossible one. Faerie, Atlantis, Mu - the desk of slothrop, all here in this heart, something changes, something old but very young emerges, time turns around and he describes the situation without taking control of it, every nuance every detail, he is watching, detached as his life goes by

I try to die for part of me knows that I am dead already and death only feels like a province of the living, a continuation. I feel like its hell sometimes because I havent been doing what I should have done lately, the original plan, youre turning into too old but not old enough, it feels like hell when I forget the words, I know theres a word for exactly that in that context and I know how to use it but I cant for the life of me remember

He doesnt know where were headed, he doesnt really care, in his youth he did but he was quickly disillusioned, partly by choice, influenced by outdated literati but he knows the way goes furthur. f'taghn. He thinks about the old fuckers, the bitter shits that made his mind, he thinks about the books he never re-reads and theyre from old, from whence everything began

He goes out, on his little balcony, in his pajamas with a knit beanie on his head, its november and the cold is coming but not here yet and hes just standing there with his little doobie and he looks out and most windows are dark