Well, it's 6:03 and black as pitch, and the windows
'don't need nothing.' Their message book is closed.
I'm sitting next to a form of myself, one who writes
and listens, while the dog sleeps on the couch. All
this life has its moment for sure. I can gather things,
but they won't stay. Everything fragments, runs away.
One time I dreamed great things - distant lands of
warriors and kings, sceneries and vistas and wild,
mountain things. Now the pass has been closed, that
little tunnel bridge imploded, those Alps and Germanic
passes are all gone. Not as if bombing took place,
nothing like that - just instead the weathering passage
of time and all seasons. Just like me, they've lost their
reasons. I'm not sad or morose - as I said, it's 6:03,
and black as a ghost could be, if ghosts were
black and I was me.