Patching together in pieces from apart. Another place. There is another place. There is another place in me. Pieces of it. Each life its problems. A life of problems. A life full of problems. A lifeful of problems. A measure. Each life its problems made equal in the flexible mind. It is still all the same thing. Piece by piece. No possessions to lose. No friends to offend. No time to bind you. Each its problems. Day by day for measure by measure there is no difference day by day. Problems salute the passing time. Problems like the ticking clock. Problem by problem by day by day the passing time like the ticking clock. One by one by one by one by one bye and bye and bye-bye. The ticking clocks salute the passing problems like time. From one to the next to the next to the next. There is no difference. There are no values to differ. Each movement balanced exactly. Each problem balanced exactly good for bad. It all stands the same. Again and again it is more or less again and again always. The ticking clocks tick. The passing problems pass. It is like time to be like time no more no less. The ticking clocks tap very impatient fingers for tomorrow in clockwise patience. No possessions to lose the ticking clock. No friends to offend the clock rotating mechanically in company or not. No ties to bind you all together. The snapping bonds send the rhythmic sounds scattering. Scattering to the corners of the room cuts free. The ticking clock sent whispering away. Nothing moves here but that rotates and returns. To spin around freely cut the ticking music outwards. Cutting free to passing time the passing problems loaded like a gondolier. Sad water flows on greyly. Bright lights reflect you still in grey again. Passing lights reflected you greyly.
Even a name ties you. Simple. So simple. Cut it to simplicity. Even a name ties you. There is not nothing here. Nothing comes sparingly. Cars on the road fill it long before it can ever arrive. Before then even it is filled as the ticking clocks play mercilessly at your eyes the outside crying.
Stone. Stone lies scattered here in pieces. Made out to the glancing sun rejoicing stands the scattered stone. Friend by friend by scattered stone lies here together like people in a cemetery. Like the scattered stone there is no contention. There are purple crocus now in a colour with pleasure in its richness. Stone by crocus grow together in the glancing sun. Passing to and fro go passing to and fro without even touching the moment of it. There is so much here that has gone and gone. The ticking clocks like footfalls repeat and repeat until all gone and again and again. It is lost in repetition. It is all lost. Repetition and repetition until it is scarcely noticed except in greyness. The buildings dull themselves in grey like clocks of people. Slowly breathing in and out its charge of people bloodstream cut like red veins as later always later. Here in the sun the stone lies side by side together. There is no contention here. A loud voice tells me the obvious as though it were not. As though it were not. Momentary irritation flashes as I walk away to not converse. Repetition here again and again of what is already obvious. Nothing but that is nothing but that.
Yellow and blue may dance their story to the end. It may be clear to all how beauty comes you in scent. The warm wooden doors to not exclude hope only people. There is Nothing more in this for you at all. Yellow and blue are neither the same as the space they create. Spring comes with dancing winds to tempt the small bulbs like stated mice. Dreaming warm mice like glorious cartoons have filled the wooden edges and ripple in the sunlight here. Stone by stone lie content in the sun warm coverlet alone in such company. Step by step by repetition the footsteps obscure so much of all this to the end. And here the green grass is like the clifftop green in hope and settled against the hard sky dreaming always up not down. Looked down here were even the grey basks in rosy hope of certainty. Fly dreamy pigeons fly to the roof in time fly in time to the dancing bulb born wind the patterns of sunlight race the ground to the horizon.
In a day it will be in a day. Time by time by step by step the days advance into they are accepted as nothing. As nothing the ticks flow by and on and on obscuring the stone obscuring the sun from grey by green. The silent ticks even change the racing sun patterns. Pigeons flying a sound towards the clouds. Dance upward in glory to fulfill a life cast by stone dreams of greyness sparkle.
Time by time ticks by day by day until they are nothing. So finally you can count them to the end and see them clearly again in the grey stones. The end has shown in sharp relief the picture once again. Small snowdrops.
Repetition swallows it all again and again untill it comes to be nothing. Repetition again. Only by seeing clearly to the end. Only so to defeat the repetition. Comfort in repetition is left behind here by the stones to run its course. Inside it is all inside no more than what it is. To drain out firstly never fill again. It is all so that it is all. Deep by the ocean the islands decaying look out with solvent filled eyes into your comforting illusions. Small snowdrops. A dandelion paints a hopeful path.