Flaccid memories in dull shades as if developed by the failure photographer. Could I dance and sing back then? And if I don’t know, how will the music recognize me now? And when Spring comes, will I frolic with the nettles or trample the lilacs? Without a past, without a past…
Two thirds ain’t so bad. And where would the world be without my now? My screaming, searing, shining now? I see it all through smudgeless windows of glass painstakingly scrubbed in water and vinegar. Now for the future, future for the now. There’s nothing wrong with a speckling of harmony at the chiasm. Without it all I would have is that gray.
Inchoate 