This is not how it goes. The flow, easy on the tongue, sliding down like a snaked jewel sweet and slippery along the mudbanks of thought, swept up from the fountains of memory.
What can be expressed, or cannot. The light lit, extinguished, carried at a distance upon a candle by a blindfolded man; a cloth across his brow, along his eyes and mouth. Like a curse, irrevocable, even with fumbling hands.

Clog, clog in the machine. A little stone at the back of the mind. Life, vibrating rough against the vision; seeking out its spark. Ties that bind, jostling around wrists, winding about the arms like a strangulating vine. Forested over, the landscape of the mind- overgrown, uncut, confounded. Minute- details. The dot that trembles along the temple repeatedly, a granulation of epic proportions marching along the brow like the sands of time.

I cannot see, feel, reach. The vision that comes to me conflicts with an inner voice that calls out to life, beyond. The world, calling you. Hello, this is here. People, their footsteps casting tall shadows over the curtains and binds I have cast over like a net, brandishing my night into the everlasting blinding day. Willing blindness, eyes shut; opening only the eyes at the back of my head- a minute opening, gaping attic window- and the dreams that mince, mince, mince.

What is there to see, really? To cover-- space. To conquer, colonial. Triumphant in the conquest of my pens wielded from fingers that stick out like knives. Little whispering vibrating gently: I am here. I am here. I exist.Creeping along the blank lines like a death march.
No longer sure. The endless hanging sentence- what exists, what does not. The half-finished line. The endless dangling thread of life reaching out from here to nowhere. Horizons, cast away in an effort to see. Ironies, metal hard, biting the skin sharply.

There is not, there is not, there is not--- 

What is? 

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