Here, I am racing towards the death :
of something not myself. Less heeded,
perhaps, not even listened to. Less listened
than less heard. I am racing towards a silence.
Exclamatory prose and explanatory items -
I can tell you about the stars and sky, but I
cannot hide them. Ride them. Write them either.
I am lost, that sheep-herding astronaut of pendant
situation, riding with a staff between lambs of
sleep and dream. The race that I am in : this
moon is falling, while this sun arises. In the
vacuity of an opened space, it's pretty much
all the same. Yes, pretty much all the same.
I am racing towards a Death I will not claim.