Where have you got to now. Where are you going. How do you see th next year. What will you be then?
Jane was expected but not seen. Perhaps because early is too early and late is too late. Perhaps that is the reason that is not the reason. A space is neither formed nor allowed. It is irrefutable. It is strangely irrefutable. I'm just going upstairs, I won't be a minute. I'm just going upstairs to give the rat a bath. All this wood, all this wire, all these words and the guinea-pig still escapes. Running as fast as its little guinea-pig legs will carry it. Up nd down up nd down each time four times each time the little tail disappears further and further. It is not cold in the morning and it is not dark. There is no sleep left in the mornings. Twice now the birds are out in th morning. No alarm. No sound. Nothing but the birds out in the morning. A weak heart is reluctant to pick up Mouse. Who was once so easy is now so careful in action. What was once neglected is now taken good note of. The Post Office is always where it should be, waiting to be remembered later in the day. Waiting to be remembered. Waiting. The warm sun delays the days passing. Anticipation of something not fully understood. The darker clouds banked up upon each other in the sun glinted memory recorded for later. Is it about ego or self expression. Is there a difference. Is it empire building. Empires of the sun clouds scatter. Why no release. Why no release. Release and no release. Dark shapes form beneath the surface. Dark shapes shed ominous shadows footstep by footstep draws darkly us together. Here I am and I didn't choose this path. These footsteps found me at their head. These questing footsteps a past my past. These questing footsteps found me finally. The dark. The slowly receding dark. Spaces travelling through time and not arriving. It was not me who left those sulln footprints. They do not own to my passing. I have not left such dark feet for anybody. Who was it left those marks that has now become me. Brooding shadows ready to hatch. A slow accumulation of details. A slow accumulation of adjectives. Something very angry and very compassionate about the early morning escape. Standing back and allowing a space to exist without the need. Spaces blowing dark and then light. Spaces blowing back to the wind. Where did all the kisses go from the days where all the footprints stand. Where did all the footprints go. Where do all the footprints lead. Are there people still at the end of the trails. Who are they now. Standing back and allowing a space to exist without the need. Seeing a future. A small fracture. A small fracture. Repairing and not repairing. Whose fracture is it anyway. Cold and lonely. Pictures that are cold and lonely now. Pictures of people before the footprints started. Pictures of them. Cold. Cold and dark. Empty repressions. Extracting self from all this patterning. To be nothing. To be really nothing. A cold space. A cold space to seek not the warmth of something barely understood. To nothing to cold to allow it without fighting. It stands of itself now. It is not stood. It is not stood. It stands. Nothing. It stands. To be nothing it stands. To gain. When it is quiet Phillip is still there. Screaming would never be enough. Small deaths line up in front of me. It is quiet you are there. Perhaps this is all for you anyway. So I die. Die small death. Line up in expectation. The right words and the wrong mind and it all being nothing then. Words or no words. Matter or no matter. Or nothing.
Just because I can't remember your name and you remind me of my father but you'll never be as good. It just isn't possible. Not for you nor probably for me. Isn't that how it should be anyway. Mediocrity. No more than that. Mediocrity and other old friends. Mediocrity throws me from you. To see it as derivative when it is probably true of you anyway. Look at the patterns of the faces. Faces and names. Meeting people is fraught with dfficulties again, patterns of faces and names are repeated over and over but never quite forgotten away. Old patterns rise up in each space in each face old patterns. Old names appear holding on to new faces. Which of those footprints led here. Look at the pattern of the faces. Look at the life of Oscar Wilde. Look for the comments. Like the granular sugar that long ago littered the tops of the buns in the bakery.
Why is it always from the inside. Why is it all problem control inside not allowing it to be a problem. Why is that. Why can't it not be a problem on the outside. Or is it just that you never see the problems from the outside that are prevented. It is quite appalling. Furniture that doesn't fit bodies. Gadgetry that supplies mechanics without a purpose. Eggs that shell themselves and jump into a pan. Sighs and smells and all those things that would otherwise stand idle. The endless knocking of prefabricated drawers into prefabricated units. The swift purposeful click of doors made by machine. Of catches and latches and piles of liver and bacon. If only you weren't so impressionable, Juliet, I would climb up to the balcony tonight.