Angles not Illuminated

Your wrist could erase worlds,
a flick of this and
your fist could close around the breath
of so many stayings.

There is no space to dwell
where your fingertips eclipse
every other happening.

Traduttore Tradittore

Odd that I scheduled two posts on the same day. Also, I've noticed that the times I was scheduling them at tend to be at midnight, which I guess is the default, but then the recent ones have fluctuated a lot. 20:08, that's 8 minutes past 8. No idea what that's about.

Again, I don't know the source of that quote. Usually I keep them in speech marks like this " not 'inverted commas' like I did there. The 'every breath a death' thing reminds me of something I said in an earlier post, but I can't find it right now. I do remember thinking with a sudden clarity about inkblot patterns - or at least what I thought was a clarity. Something about the pattern of an open book looking like a Rorschach page. It's weird that some of these got so romantic, really, because I know I didn't have anyone in mind when I wrote them. And a 'Rorschached face' is what, make up and tears? My own sight being clouded by my own tears? Something else? I don't know what I'm looking at.

[Deluge ['[...]my life | Is every breath a death: and thus, unknown'

The sky is clear as any November cataract,

Scorching blue haze over the streets.

But it begins, with no creeping of cloud

To rain

From the empty sky.

Icy prickles crane heads upward
And no answer falls with the water.

And do clouds obscure our eyes as we rain fears,
Or are we then, weeping, more than ever,
A taste of that great clarity
That cavernous sky?

Sorry about the lack of response, I was caught up with a surprise bit of coursework that had slipped my mind. I don't remember the actual writing of this last post, but I do recognise a lot of it. The words in the title come from Philip Larkin's poem 'Mr Bleaney'. Despite its sort of nursery rhyme sounding name, like all of Larkin's work it has a lot of depth to it.

As for the rest of the post, I'm pretty sure that's my writing. The phrase "vast abrupt" sounds familiar though, but I couldn't find anything by googling it. Maybe it's just familiar because I half-remember writing it.

My room was a mess back during my episode. I'd broke the latch on my window and rainwater kept falling in, seeping into the nearby wallpaper until it got distended and colourless. I'd stopped showering and I couldn't tell if the stink was from myself or the room and all the shitty food I'd left festering in the bin. I didn't really have much of an appetite, even less the desire to go out and get food or order it by phone, so what little I did had mostly ended up there.

Eventually I got tired of shivering and taped the window shut, but the heater's over-active in my room, and it gets really stuffy once the sun starts beating down on the room through the glass. I spent hazy patches of time asleep, day and night. It didn't really matter when. It's amazing how much you can sleep if you get into the habit of it. I was happier not to be conscious anyways.

"From rest and sleep, which but thy pictures be,
Much pleasure; then from thee much more must flow"

Don't worry, I have a source for that one; it's one of John Donne's Holy Sonnets.

"But if he stood and watched the frigid wind | Tousling the clouds, lay on the fusty bed | Telling himself that this was home, and grinned, | And shivered, without shaking off the dread | That how we live measures our own nature, | And at his age having no more to show | Than one hired box"]

I seem to see my shadow stretch in yellowing light, and all my breath departs without even one deliquescent cloud.

No, the air in this room is warm and stale. No wind has disturbed it for decades. No other face has stained the dust on the windows.

A vast abrupt turns my stomach.

I think I figured out what happened.

Back when I was at my worst I found I could schedule posts to auto-post in the future, i.e. after my planned death. So that's basically what that's doing lying around there. I remember my fingers hitting against the keys, but I'm a little hazy on the details, so your guess is as good as mine on the post. There are a few references to Nordic myth in it, and I do remember having some airy, empyreal concept I wanted to realise about knowing and not-knowing. At any rate I must've wrote it up in about five minutes with no editing so don't expect some deep subtext.

It looks like I have quite a few more posts lined up. Again, I don't remember much of the details of writing them, so I'll put up what explanations I can as they come rather than read them all up now. Like a conversation with myself. But then, that's all this blog is, right?

I didn't post that.

[Mímisbrunnr] [ ] [] ["myself to myself, | On the tree that none may know | What root beneath it runs.] Downwards I peered; I took up the runes, screaming I took them, then I fell"] InhaleExhaleInhaleExhaleInhaleExhalenihilExhale

Life

Death's price.

Knowledge

Death's release.


Eternity wakes.

The eyelid of all opens

Like a wound

And bleeds absence.

Ichor Left on a Forest Rock

I caught a glimpse
Of a nymph
And her boyfriend.

Spent a while
Damming bile
While I envied.

For her touch
Not so much
Do I crave her -

But her space,
Pagan grace
To be bloodless.

To inhale above the reaches
Of a single tethered coda
Coiled about a gnarled
Finger
Of dead bark,
That one day will be
Again.

Eight Months

It's been a long time since I've felt so lucid. Or at least, ready to explain all this.
In a few [less] words.

It's not the most challenging of things to infer that I haven't been well. I've been unwell. For a while. It must've started around September last year. That's when I think I burnt down those trees. I have no idea what triggered it all. Maybe it was the slouch of winter lurching close, and the dimness of the sky. I have a poem I wrote by hand from then:

Frost sets in upon my hair,
as it powders morning grass,
and ice creeps in beneath my nails,
as it thinly adorns the surfaces of lakes,
Winter rumbles closer now,
as it does every year.

It looks like I fucked up the metre on that fourth line. I can't remember if there was a reason for that, or no reason at all.

Or maybe it was just the stress of university work. Weird how stress can corner you into a dark recess or alcove where you never thought you'd end up, a place where you find some strange sickly shell that you never knew was part of you.

I've seen it take a lot of my friends. Well, not a lot. One or two, a long time ago. And maybe that's just what it is. The fact that I didn't or don't exactly have a real relationship with anyone. Because being alone for a long time can fuck you up too. So much nothingness around you. Like being in a vacuum. Eventually you just give in to the emptiness and the outside enters and your within withall becomes a gaping without, until all of you amounts to the opposite of all.[-and you]

So about that time something really rotten began to fester in me, and every insecurity I had suddenly flickered from being fears to beliefs, and every whim or flitting thought I came across just unravelled and it was like I was drunk, I just couldn't stop myself from doing the things I did, thinking the thoughts I thought. I saw a lot of things that scared me.

It's actually kinda funny how much my posts started to imitate of Leaves, but then, that was all I could think about at times. I suppose it took Johnny's own madness to make me recognise what was happening to me. Maybe that's the secret of why this book has had such an effect on me, even before I knew. Narcissus gazing into a pool that ripples answers even I couldn't extrapolate into a message of vanity.

I don't think I'll delete those posts though. If anything, I'm kind of glad I wrote them. It's like a timeline or a track to see what was happening at those times. I don't remember all of it. I forgot a lot, almost like a dream, where there's only fragments, and you know there's some (unconscious?) thread connecting all the scenes together, but watch as you must, you still cannot locate the absent memories. But then, how could you ever locate nothing? Maybe if it was surrounded by something, but if not. If my very own nothing is surrounded by a much more space of nothing.

I should stop thinking that hard. It's probably part of what got me in such a state to begin with. I always thought the advantage of depression, any mood or psychotic disorder, was being forced into a sort of introspection, a meta-cognisance that others simply never consider, might not even want to. But after all that, what am I really left with? I don't know what I know or what I don't know. It's not worth the cost. And is there even a cost? Is there ever an exchange? So it's just vanus.
And all that isolation, yes it makes you focus on what's here (you, only ever you, and even then that you is faltering, uncertain, uncanny) but that isn't necessarily a good thing. After long enough it just starts to corrode you. All the thoughts and counter-thoughts and reels of flickering frames of emotions being shattered and shards of glass rake the inside of your skull. Extending so far and long. I wanted it to stop. I had to make it stop.

Once I realised that, it might have even been a relief had not my mind been in the same state that triggered the urge, all my doubts and re-doubts and certainties and opinions and hates. That was around the time I wrote my last few posts. I honestly don't remember where I got a lot of the stuff there. Some of it was in quotation marks, but I couldn't find sources for all of the things I said, and a lot of it sounds too much like my own voice. I think the Greek is a passage on Socrates, and there's quite a few quotes from Danielewski lying about, naturally. Figure the rest out yourself if you want. I can't explain it and the best explanation is probably that, or perhaps what I wrote itself.

Looking at the posts just now actually, I recognise all the square brackets. Well, at least, I think I know what inspired me to use such a plethora of them - last summer I was reading translations of Sappho's poetry; Anne Carson wrote an amazing translation of her fragments that is scattered with brackets, she used them to signify where the manuscripts were illegible, torn, missing, or destroyed.  "When translating texts read from papyri, I have used a single square bracket to give an impression of missing matter, so that ] or [ indicates destroyed papyrus or the presence of letters not quite legible somewhere in the line."

I'm off track. At some point in the night, once I wrote the post of the 12th of March, I swallowed a month's worth of halopleridol and aripiprazole and when I couldn't stand waiting I reached into the draw by my bed, took out the noose I had tied weeks earlier and hung myself off the rail by my window.
Through all the windows I only see infinity.
I don't remember the paramedics who carried me out, but later I learnt it was my girlfriend who cut me loose and called them. Ex-girlfriend, I guess. I'm not exactly sure when things broke off, but when I started to have all those thoughts about her I pretty much cut off all our contact. Strange. That night was the first time she decided to try visiting my apartment. It was late, more like morning, but at the hospital she told me how apparently she'd had a "bad feeling" about me out of the blue. I don't know any more, she won't talk to me now, and I don't blame her. The urge to delete all those posts is back. Some of the things I said are just so strange. I think so. All that spite and suspicion and fear had to have come from somewhere. Some source to some smoke poisoning.

I spent three weeks sectioned while my medication was changed and dosage was fixed and therapist called. I tried a few more times to end it while I was there, but I did not not and I never let anyone know, so I got released fairly soon. I have to see my therapist twice a week now, and my doctor three times a month. I feel about as crap as ever, but at least my thoughts don't stray, and I can step outside of my room without a panic attack. I've spoken with some people at the university and with a note from my psychiatrist I managed to keep my place on the course.

That's about all. I think I'll keep updating the blog, and if things get bad again I might stop. I told my therapist about it - not giving the blog's name of course - and she said it seemed like a good idea. An outlet. Once I thought that the whole idea of repression, of locking away feelings, being stoic, was fine (how English); that it was a myth that the habit only hurt you, only hardened the sediment of anxious habit, only endlessly reiterated the dismay that creeps. But the water-blurred edges of a few breakdowns several years ago fixed that. It's better to talk. Even alone. Even to yourself. To myself. Quiet but for my own [g]rasping. That's easier. Maybe it will even be better.

"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

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.