P34 - PurposeTo liveand to loveand to laugh;to hurtand to heal;to comeand to seeand to conquerall partsof me;to become a soulworth being.
P33 - ChillyA chill,in my chest,spreading through my ribsfor all the worldlike water through lines in the sand.
P32 - NesegisA darkened room,echoing silence;trappedwithin the black.A sliver of light,a thread, hanging,hanging in the emptiness.Closer, quietly,and it breaks;quietly splitting,falling apart,darkness swelling and frothing,until there is lightno more.A sound.A low noise,a single noise.A sound.The soundof the beginning,whatever that sound might be;a cry, a whisper,the noise a hand makeson a stubbled cheekin an overcast park.A quiet sound.A single sound.The silence breaths,invisible lungs pull inand push out,converting something into something elseto keep everything workingas it should;to start everything workingas it should have beenworking.Wake up.
P31 - Did Not WriteTodayI did not write.I put pen to paper,fingers to keys,and words were created,but I did not write.I produced. Rote.Systematically annihilating spaces.A machine;input,output,result.Without moodwithout tonewithout love;without soul.Today,I did not write.Tomorrowthe sun will rise.
P30 - HopeMy legs steal the breathfrom my lungs;my pounding feetrob my headof whatever keeps it steady.Dizzy, heaving,red-faced,I scramblethrough city streets,and push between heavy, floating,too-slow figures,bodies shod and laced.I hope it's not too late.I round corners,praying that my path is clear.No time to look,no time to listen.I stream across streets,praying that no-one's coming.No time to think,no time to waste.I hope it's not too late.A distant clock,bells shining bright,strikes an hour.The crescent sun wanes.I hope it's not too late.A puff of smoke,a cloud of fear.I hope it's not too late.I hope,therefore,I am.I hope.
P29 - One Hundred and TenEmpty,I lie,on these wet cobbles,the cold of the air filling my bones,as my blood begins to fill the ground.Filtering.Filtering life as it passes through,filtering memories as they flash and fade,filtering the world, keepingthe good stuff,in a jar, on my spirit's mantle.They're packed.The best of times,and the worst;powerful times packed,in a bundle,on my back.Was it the hunt,that turned me hunted?The thrill of a chase,the rush of the windthrough greying hair?Or was it a bullet,a melancholic gift from a stranger,or spirita message that I've breathedone too many breaths?Bury me. Not today, nor tomorrow,but bury me;in green,and brown,and all the shades of the Autumn world.Bury my body and all of my pieces, butmy heart is for you.Read it, as you havethese long years;then burn it.Cremate my soul,quickly and quietly,so that no otherwill hold it.It is for you.
P28 - Last ThingsThings I Did On The Night That The World Ended.-Made dinner.-Built and painted a set in which to film a stopmotion sequence.-Watched 'P.S: I Love You'.-Found two overdue library books.-Did some dishes.-Thought about getting a hair cut.-Drank a cold cup of tea.-Wrote half a poem.-Thought about things I'll miss tomorrow.-Thought about you.
P27 - LuneHer joy follows the moon,and tonightthe moon tugs.
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