The night of time far surpasseth the day, and who knows when was the Æquinox?

Why is it that there are so many words for impermancence?

Transience, evanesence, fleeting, ephemeral, short-lived momentary temporary temporal passing brief transitory fugacious

All the while a great fly-by of time. Mono no aware.

Truant writes:

"Up in the sky-high,
Off to the side-eye,
All of us now sigh,
Right down the drain-ae"

Elsewhere in of Leaves Zampanò quotes Ernst Becker:

"The lower animals ... lack a symbolic identity and the self-consciousness that goes with it. They merely act and move reflexively as they are driven by their instincts. If they pause at all, it is only a physical pause; inside they are anonymous, and even their faces have no name. They live in a world without time, pulsating, as it were, in a state of dumb being. This is what has made it so simple to shoot down whole herds of buffalo or elephants. The animals don't know that death is happening and continue grazing placidly while others drop alongside them. The knowledge of death is reflective and conceptual, and animals are spared it. They live and they disappear with the same thoughtlessness: a few minutes of fear, a few seconds of anguish, and it is over. But to live a whole lifetime with the fate of death haunting one's dreams and even the most sun-filled days—that's something else."

On the most sun-filled days-

Sounds like the half-audible inhilation I take half-hearing the half-sentence of an already out of reach conversation. Familiar voice. But it makes sense. "Death is the sound of distant thunder at a picnic" after all. So up in the sky-high I'm smiling and laughing and laughing in a green-hazed field laughing so much with someone at my sides I'm almost gasping and choking with laughing so I look to the side-eye and

Oh.

Grey clouds.

"Until at last, limping past another turn.
Thuuuuuuuuuuuuunder.
"""""""""""""""""""

And also to the side-eye
No friend, acquaintance
or even accomplice.

                             Just the clouds.

All of us now sigh. It seems the whole world sighs with me. Or maybe it's the sound of ... yes-


Concrete sighs; rain begins to fall.


The walls of mist. Deliquescent deluge covers the evanescent earth, making it a great blue world. Though not so great.

The Hyades weep. They always do. It doesn't get easier for them, just more familiar.That's one kind of constancy I suppose.

But even I can't trick myself into believing that, and I'm the lord of lies. Oh yes, I've tricked myself into believing lots of things. So many of them, like rainfall, drops that seep through my clothes. Sure it's refreshing at first, and the air feels clearer. For a second you even believe that you can breathe. But the water reaches your skin. Cold creeps into your bones and ice learns to reside there. It might shatter. It might melt. I'm terrified of both. Yeah, I think it's the shattering. Of course, when it starts to melt it gets weaker, more likely to snap anyway. Every move I take might make it break apart, all of it, like my memory, my notes, I can't let that shatter be rended apart in a slash so sudden it stuns you  but before you can be stunned you're already oblivion and your pieces scatter into such small bits that you can't make them out through the rain that keeps falling oh god that so so cold rain isn't stopping it wont STOP

Nihilistic Paradox

Known. Some. Call. Is. Air. Am.

I think I understand. The tragedy of pretending we can translate. They're phonetics, of course. For the Latin. Non sum qualis eram. "In the spirit of the dark; in the spirit of the staircase [...] Which is to say -" I am not what I used to be.

And even once we recognise that the phonetics echo Latin? What then? We're left with a dead language. Sank into the margins of a tongue's motion, an ear's incline. Several layers of meaning, several depths to sink through. And incoherent. The tragedy of pretending we can translate, when we are circling - perhaps spiralling, drawing closer to that inevitable Point of singularity, or the reverse, unravelling and twisting out and out into eternity or the great abrupt plummet, each their own horror - on the scratched surface of something we name truth.

As if meaning could be gleaned from the mind of another solipsist.

When one code is uncovered, another replaces it. So many meanings - a cascade, drop after shard after drop of discollected ephemera. The deepest level of meaning is merely a shadow (yours) cast over the slash of a deeper abyss. Because to accept that non sum qualis eram is to accept that your knowledge returns to that old Near Hill. That what you knew is not what you know is not what you will learn is not what you will die thinking you know.

And the irony, the paradox. That the statement itself is an approximation, representation, attempt to depict a lack. An absence. How can you describe something as unexperienced, unknown, un-canny as nothing? As death? How can a simulacrimarum exist of emptiness, a likeness of that which in its hollow ways cannot even define itself? Except, perhaps, in its contrast with its opposite. But even the opposite is the thin wavering line of a half-imagined phosphene spluttering out in the intoxication of two great unencompassing wings of darkness. Shadow on the abyss. The meaning of the code is its lack of meaning, of all lack of meaning, of my lack of meaning. Yours. (My words, after all, mean as little to you as any others'. As they mean to me. The derivative incoherency of a thousand half-heard conversations, a lifetime of dappled light shimmering over the translucent inward-facing mirrors of my eyelids.) The one constant of our own unending change. We are never what we are. We are not. "Noli me-". And I'm telling you the meaning of this now. "Love of love written by the broken hearted, love of life written by the dead." Irony. That Maginot Line written by the already condemned, you remember. And I'm all ready condemned to or for that same pit. The long hallway of blank walls. Here at last flinging back the distorted echoes of what allways has been my own voice and nothing more than an impossible description of emptiness.

l'esprit de l'escalier

I should probably just say I'm not alright alright it's not that easy.

But I should explain. Summers and summers spent by s
Mine
It was my
"A that stands in my heart
My cathedral of silence
Every morning recaptured in dream
Every evening abandoned
A covered with dawn
Open to the winds of my youth."

[broke]
en
dans l'esprit de l'escalier [dans? en?]
It probably is too late, actually. Going off with friends' families' holidays not my own not even my own apostrophes but out of pity and never allowed to invite them not never allowed nor willing but their parents would ward them off from my windows, their windows me from their glass. Glad.

Some stray now backs
Up whining
In the fear that preludes the severance of several se-
Conds of anguish before
It is done.
Debilitated, or hopefully
Ended. I'd like to say it's worth a shot.

(Bad joke, sorry.)

Didn't have many others
but books
mostly. It's easier to write
like this
[fragments
less damaged or more
something whole can be pieced out of it-
no, each shard a whole story on its own
more capable to cut
words and swords
]a story
Easier to remain when not in the when not with the parents the basement or attic the thick walls the tree in the back of the garden and all the other burnt or before burnt with lines scored into them as if chains had bitten their way into the bark bark barking at my fears iseasier than silence. Mine. Sometimes I wanted to run away you know just blow go row everywhere not there not I. 
Seeking something resembling symmetry. But but but when I was me there were the pans and clinking and the knives and bruises hahaha oh god I lied don't believei  can't finish that sentence

Forget the pills
Forget the lost memories
(wish I couldn't)
"ᴅᴇᴀᴅ ʜᴏᴘᴇ. Very dangerous."

I know they're still plotting even though he's gone brother sister mother plotting girlfriend plotting blonde hair plotting The Garden plot shows black earth still if the ash isn't gone but I don't think the wind's come yet. My window's open. People are singing Happy Birthday outside, better blow out out their brief candle, but I can't make out the voices, who's whose who. An owl? Just the tone. No words. No subject. All signs. A guttural masculine voice warbling, half-snatched by the air. Better that way.

But this way,
what was the story?
Terza rima

Because I'm being dragged,
Faltering,
By ways my eye bags sag

Haltering,
The way my motions stay
Wavering

The sense of going a[way.
 ]

All surrounding me.      A shimmering. I can grin now. If I move an inch I'll crease the paper of my notes. Don't want that one  bit, so I make sure never to move. Pad of paper right here, I can add to the rows and rows of paper circling overlapping overlying underlieing and I won't sleep because then I might fall into it and through it, though the initial into it not such a problem- OH

The story

not a friend or a fear to find if I indulge
wrong word, just to fit the terza,
if I inhabited
(yes)
books
instead.

Suppose it began with teachers actually
no not Plato Aristotle Heraclitus-
 school. Not a friend when you scent of things long dried
but the little boy's Lizzie brain looking for approval finds the teacher curriculum books find him and he reads to get good grades to get good smiles to get good nods and it grows familiar with weekends and work and weekends and work and work alone the girl in Greece and someone else and he thought it might not end that she or he would go or when the colour faded that the sunlightlier memories at least would stay but "SHE SAID MEMORIES MEAN ALL BUT THEY ARE ALL DEAD" and characters too alive in the head reread or maybe something chemical there broke like a glow stick twig

just snapped one day
no reason

or perhaps the long  build up of a

break
another kind of snapped
scar formed long ago
reopened now
somehow.

In the fall the wind the drop
the reaching hand only scratches like a claw.

That's All.

bene dissaepti foedera mundi|traxit in unum thessala pinus|iussitique pati uerba pontum,|partemque metus fieri nostri|mare sepositum Depths' black burning lashes my wristtwistlistofmissedwistormissingwists remember-

[  plans made but forgotten ] [Inside, godless Fury, sitting on savage arms roaring hideously from bloody mouth, hands shackled behind his back with a hundred bands of bronze]

Nos e tanto uisi populo|digni premeret quos euerso|cardinem mundus? Nunc iam cessit pontus et omnes patitur leges|uenient annis saecula seris, quibus Oceanus|pateat tellus Tethysque nouos|detegat orbes nec sit terris|ultima Thule A way with lamenting, sever, read, red, ever-

[  solipsist  ] ["Away with lamenting; depart, fear. He is greedy for life who does not want to die when the world dies with him."] [
]

To run outside of the house

"an immense cosmic is a potential of every dream of s. Winds radiate from its center and gulls fly from its windows. A that is as dynamic as this allows the poet to inhabit the universe. Or, to put it differently, the universe comes to inhabit his "

It's either too much or too little to fit and I've ran out of reasons for it even to be either.

Just ran out of reasons.

Sunlit street neighbouring a park

"Have facts really the value that memory gives them? Distant memory only recalls them by giving them a value, a halo, of happiness. But let this value be effaced, and the facts cease to exist. Did they ever exist? Something unreal seeps into the reality of the recollections that are on the borderline between our own personal history and an indefinite pre-history, in the exact place where, after us, the childhood home comes to life after us. ... Thus, on the threshold of our space, before the era of our own time, we hover between awareness of being and loss of being. And the entire reality of memory becomes spectral"

Omission

"[...]" looks so much like devouring, cannibalistic teeth.

Haloperidol

"[...]we are self-consciously aware that our certainty is all hypothetical: we understand that we create the meaning we think we find; we know that when we feel most certain we are taking for fact exactly what we pretend to be. How are these moments of self-consciousness achieved? ...we come to self-consciousness about our pretended certainty through the confrontation with alterity, and experience of the other that surprises us in its intractability, its refusal to conform to what we imagine we know [...] the expectations that we call knowledge."