Conclusion, September 19th, aligned in a sense to Geordie Greep's "The Magician":
Spent a million light years wondering why I didn't know you yet, finally learnt of you, now we are here and true together, this is all I could never chalk it up to be, for it is unimaginably true and real in a way I could never manifest within my willing consciousness. Had a dream, a terrifying dream, a loving dream, an infinite dream, and then I had another dream I was playing Deus Ex again, and this time New York had never taken such a living breathing form again. My center is shifting. In paying for my future by resolving this form of inner-dwelling debt, I have to ask myself what this was all for again in the beginning. Considering in an immense sense that it was nothing I could not know. I could not howl. I was never aware of this, so one night in the woods I stared east in my hemisphere and kept longing for a goodbye, given that this was all I really knew how to do and was conditioned to know how to do, and now I'm being told that this missing was in bad shape unless I follow an exact life path for the future, and what's that all about? But, still, sitting in the middle of the dusk and hust and, and quieting upon myself, because there's nothing better in this life than, than, than...
endless nonsense rambling...
incredibly generic, unconscious, poised within my dwell in robot-years and my fascination with Earwickers wake...
... and a result of being afraid.
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I'm hiding from living
I'm hiding from breathing
I'm hiding from everything!
Your convulsions have cracked the dust of the earth
Your pantomime moans, so rehearsed
You'll never turn your head again
Just like me, you're alive, you're dead, you're dead
...
In this nondescript forest in which I know nothing
I clutch my little knave and I awake from the dream
Like the stars, happily married, who still lie alone
Like the world famous actor, still completely unknown
Like the driving black forest, of you I know nothing
I know none of you, your skin, your sin, your stench, your things
I know none of your sense of shame,
I know only your name.
...
Forgotten the ways, forgotten the ways, forgotten the ways, forgotten the ways, mistreated and abused and maladapted in my tatetí game as though I were new and nothing, and still, all that gets me away now is the raving new noon of the future, still with a light and shade of the old moon, because that is an unescapable core of myself, and OH, this rondo really IS, isn't it? Pivoting in the triangle-unhex again and new; the other day I walked thru the smoke before it cleared and although I wish it were raining, the sky was clear as could be (funny how that works) and the moon was shining duly parted upon my lips in a half-lit half-hiding matter, but it was aerly[sic] enough that I could still see its quiet coward puckerlipper part; now in my bed I know that it must be true, that the moon is in some part non-rock, in some part living and returning to us, in some part controller of destiny, and in some part I know that all this is a reflection and mirror of what is and couldn't be and what will be and the future is hiding SOMETHING for all us all, what? What? What? When? When? When?!?
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