"I'm allways moved by
manners on going away.

So I stay."

[Cenotaph] [Verisimilitude] [Periphraſis] Circumlocution] and a prolix life ["the after math of meaning. A lifetime finished between the space of two frames. The dark line where the eye persists in seeing what was never there To begin with"] [

I'm so sorry.

[
 Trepanned-
  [and all
breaks

down.

]
I don't intend to be for long.

All my words are empty now. I have none left. I can't keep thinking this hard. I want to drive a nail into my brain. [...
This constant intempesta nocte
and the dismal lurid phosphenes clouding my retina
]Lembre-se desta noite, pois ela é o início da eternidade.

My breaths are all exhalations
an unending expiration squeezed out beneath the jagged backs of collapsed dwellings.

My ribcage is distending or ingrown and biting into myself

and I've long since stopped bleeding.
I'm just dry now. All dried up. Or drowned. I don't know because I don't feel.

Doubled over myself;
Older than anything
Not seen.
Even s[i]miles must go.


I don't feel
I don't hope
I don't know
I don't.                                                                                                                                      Noli me-

The grass between my  fingers is ash now. The soil is Dust. The trees are all stumps and black weeds.
Eventually they aren't even that. Well - they just aren't.


The room is utterly empty. The is gone.The tiles in the hall are chipped and yellow. They prickle with the sound of someone sobbing around a corner. But which corner you don't know.

Somewhere
A family of threads are convolved
over and over and over and over.


Pills are drowned.
There's one more cure. More of a treatment really.
[tourniquet
To wrap tight around something that was

]                 Severed
so long ago. So so long
that you never knew until the blood dried up
or ran out.
Enough to last decades and now it's banished. Displaced. Started [st]reams somewhere else you'll never ever really see - just the mirage before it, the wavering air. Shimmering.[
I see now how]
one thing can hold the wound. One last habit lets go.

The first habit you ever make. The last habit to ever break.


Enough going in circles. Enough coiling. Some ends have been knotted like mandrake roots while others are saved for the coagulation.

I know I can piece this one last thing together. At least I know that final meaning. Or I'm about to. Or I'm not going to about to ever again, [n]ever mind if I never had to begin with. So I guess it's been over a while.
[
Prolepsis.

I don't know how] to finish [this all
[


so] I'll just stop

[Manthanô] [pharmakon] [the] rest [is] silence

"troubled thoughts ... stir
The hell within him, for within him
Hell he brings"

"myself am hell

And in the lowest deep a lower deep

Still threatening to devour me opens wide,

To which the hell I suffer seems a heaven"

Hell[ebore]. A dangerous cure.

Though not to me,

Nor Socrates. 

‘ὦ Κρίτων, ἔφη, τῷ Ἀσκληπιῷ ὀφείλομεν ἀλεκτρυόνα: ἀλλὰ ἀπόδοτε καὶ μὴ ἀμελήσητε.’

       I know. I'm sorry. So many meanings. So little meaning. And no one left to figure it out?
I never Could                                                                                                     Ἓν οἶδα ὅτι οὐδὲν οἶδα

All by the end just falls

out of my hands

slips

[[[a-

way]

]

μανθάνω, ἦ δ᾽ ὅς: ἀλλ᾽ εὔχεσθαί γέ που τοῖς θεοῖς ἔξεστί τε καὶ χρή, τὴν μετοίκησιν τὴν ἐνθένδε ἐκεῖσε εὐτυχῆ γενέσθαι: ἃ δὴ καὶ ἐγὼ εὔχομαί τε καὶ γένοιτο ταύτῃ. καὶ ἅμ᾽ εἰπὼν ταῦτα ἐπισχόμενος καὶ μάλα εὐχερῶς καὶ εὐκόλως ἐξέπιεν. καὶ ἡμῶν οἱ πολλοὶ τέως μὲν ἐπιεικῶς οἷοί τε ἦσαν κατέχειν τὸ μὴ δακρύειν, ὡς δὲ εἴδομεν πίνοντά τε καὶ πεπωκότα, οὐκέτι, ἀλλ᾽ ἐμοῦ γε βίᾳ καὶ αὐτοῦ ἀστακτὶ ἐχώρει τὰ δάκρυα, ὥστε ἐγκαλυψάμενος ἀπέκλαον ἐμαυτόν—οὐ γὰρ δὴ ἐκεῖνόν γε, ἀλλὰ τὴν ἐμαυτοῦ τύχην, οἵου ἀνδρὸς

"...his ridiculous and terrible ‘last word’ means for those who have ears: ‘O Crito, life is a disease.’"

ApopheniaApopheniaApophenia. Apophenia. Apophenia. Apophenia. ApopheniaApopheniaApophenia.

Can you imagine what it's like to be falling in utter darkness? No sensation except the numbing wind rushing past, but eventually you stop feeling that. Just the black, seeping into your pores. You close your eyes and nothing changes. You open them and it's still impossible to see. I can't imagine it, but I don't have to. Nor do you. You won't.

Alternatively,

We're all standing on the edge of an abyss. Maybe it holds that same darkness you're falling through. I don't know. There could be others falling in that darkness. Right next to you, if only you could see them. But you can't, and for all you know Nothing is there. Or something much worse. Born in that night. Born of that night. With eyes that see through absence and gaze at the hollow cavern of your heart flooding with dark.

All of us. And the difference is, some of us are looking down off that precipice. Into the pit. No, a lot of people do that, once or twice. But some of us lean over. Hunch. Stoop.

The terribly thin point of balance pressed against something airy and thinner than Someone's hair brushing through your hand - beyond which, by just a fraction, you tip. And no matter how much you writhe, twist, coil, turn, reach,



You fall.
And maybe you realise, years later, still gone, unsure even if you move let alone fall in this void, long after you see the light at the top vanish, or was it there ever, or were you always falling, and the ground, the bottom, the floor so solid and silent rushing up to envelop you, not that you could see it sense it even because you feel you've always sensed it but its reaching up you're sure you're sure there's a bottom and it will enfold you in less than the briefest moment of a fugacious glance half-shared with a stranger you will never know you won't even feel it as it happens and then you won't feel anything at all