If there were ever hope for this thing. This. If there were ever hope for it. I wonder what it would do. There is something gone from the will to climb the staircase of the words. The words are many, and the steps are many, and steep, and the way up is high and leads far away. There is eventually a question of How do you know? There is this emptiness beneath. Oh, but. How do you know? This is where we’ve gone now that we go there. There are so many other ways your life could have turned out. But here you are, at your local public library, listening to “Grantchester Meadows” by Pink Floyd, writing this thing. What do you have to say for yourself? “Well.” And that is enough. Apart from the culling of the field of late thoughts flourishing in the flora, there are alternate routes to the fair. Some travel there with earth-blackened bare feet. Some come up to the tree line and see out and just breathe a while. There is nothing lost for them. There is nothing lost. Do you wait, now, on the edge of a thinning blade, inside? Does it come up to become you, this pain? All this everyday? Are you journaling? What does it mean? Yes and now. Have itself along the way.

Because, man, I do not pretend to know you. But you are going on all the time. It is apparent now. Running the earth. Doing away with the relativity of time. Experiencing life together with yourself. Having this song play in your headphones while you write. Nervously sipping on a whole-milk vanilla latte. Loving the taste. The taste. Loving the taste. Looping back again. Becoming seen. By yourself? No, yes. Becoming seen. There is an intro to a song here that is going on. This latest one is “Atom Heart Mother.” If there were ever a way to tell what was going on, would you use it? Hello. There is a frequent glitch inside the scene. Can you tell now? Hello. There is a scene. Letting go of itself late in the goings-on. Tell me what you mean by that.