Before I came to be I was nowhere. I'm nowhere now. I've been more and less present to dwelling on words, not the meaning but the way I say them, their relationship to silence and absence, the expanse about the syllables in the air. I think I should move on.
I awoke curled into the side of a mountain, a stone among the snow. Less I was the mountain or a tree, a stroke of lightening on the Liffey, unheard of as a story for gulls. Their battles are so fierce because the stakes are so small. Where was I then? Was that Swords or the Battery? That was wassisname's pub, wasn't it? More I think of it, it was Old Christmas Day, begging grog with boots on my hands and a cloth over my face to hide the scars. They all let me in. They know that I'm half-ways in, something left unfinished. Where are they going? I don't know. This isn't where I thought I was.
I remember a time before I left, but not well. I shudder to think back though it seems like only yesterday, or earlier tomorrow? Less I was a child and still an old man. Every word I spoke canceled out the rest and in the end I'd said nothing, just built mounds where I stood waiting for the end. Those apparitions showed themselves to me, though perhaps they never did. I tasted them with trembling, shivering down my spine, walking over unmarked graves, over crawling skin. Was that me underground, sinking lower than a sunset over all the unsympathetic miles? When I wake up I’m still gone and I never wake up, keep moving in a dream as notes falling from a piano to snow hanging in the air to days stolen from behind. Will I remember when the sun goes down? Will I be jealous of the night? Will there be lions? If there are there will be.