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I tried not to write these words... I couldn't help it... it just happened... like the nebulous cluster that burst to give us earth... and sun... and Venus... and venus/// where do you get off... the gravity that you know... better than me... about fate... and the things set before us... and all the carpel tunnel syndrome... associated with writing/// and how you think it's an enigma... a question wrapped in a conundrum inside a riddle... when all I say is meant to be clear... like yes... no... I only came out to see you... and who has time for the truth... when you're in the middle of the meander of life... when you write these words only for yourself/// instead of alone

Things I think I know:

am i alive
is there another life
is there meaning
if there are others
if now is precious
if two is a special number
when to follow suit
why

why bother
when Venus rules
is the cat a beautiful creature
or not
if love is lovely
if lonely loves regret
if I behold
anything

What the Sphinx said of the Secret

I want to speak but I don't want to tell the story. When I move my lips the words turn to sand, like they were made to order in a stone grinding factory in my mind.

I think you're right when you say that you can't trust people to tell their own stories, that they'll give you a necessary fiction, tailored to suit your own. All the things you'd never share with a soul with a soul ...

So I'll skip to the part where I say that you'll never understand the depths my claws now reach -- where what cloaks you behind the world's curtain and your ashes turns to ash. No earth, no morning-star or stone-chat. No souls.

Then what silence will speak the language of alone? Then what fiction? Then what trust? The veil is thrown back as time roots out the festering unbidden and all is absolved.

To you I seem untelling silent: you simply do not hear. Each day I grin an earful at Ra for all fades away ... nothing will remain ... there is no secret worth keeping.

Where there is any doubt ...

... there can be no doubt.
This is a world of half talk --
a darkening place which lives
in the corner a hanging forest
dripping ever more questions
on the ground's answer
while fear or fate laughs a foul stench
and melts into blackness.

Two rules:

Fifteen minutes of pleasure isn't worth one second of someone else's unhappiness.

Where there is any doubt there can be no doubt.