Sam stands at the window that looks out on the dim woods and declares, in his way, that he's not who I think he is and that I should take heed from the words of those I do not know, meaning, I think, the passing misery, which speaks to me in warnings and allegories and nonsense, though it's all nonsense, of course, because, I've learned, there is nothing that isn't nonsense, anywhere.
All of these passages. All this passing. From zygote to birth to
otherlife.
Around and around.
Or straight ahead, afterward, to a place we can not define.
I believe that I'm very, very hungry. I don't know anymore. I can't be certain. Hunger is a need, you understand.
But, like all needs, it passes.
I look down at myself and I don't see much, either because there's not much to see or because hunger is affecting my vision, at last.
Or I could be living in my gray matter; making what I find there into a storyline to live in and be part of—a little house in the dim woods surrounded by ghosts and lust.
I am so lucid.
I am so lucid.
But there is, you see, nothing wrong with me that blissful ignorance and a meaningful roll in the hay can't fix.
That's why I keep breathing.