traces . . . 90% of the world is dark matter . . .

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.you see i write as i feel, but sometimes things shoot out of the blue a something hidden that i can not speak of nor barely think of without splitting apart and floating off... i never knew that things could hurt so much and mean so little . . . there are a million and three things that i would like to say but the spaces grow too large and the glass too full . . . i turn to the east and think i remember my souls last pilgrimage, it roosted and left me behind, am i so nothing that even the air passes me by, or so vast that this world alone is not quiet or large enough to contain me. . . i love you . . . i remember that but i. can. not. connect. to . the. photograph. when i really think i re member no thing and i ask myself which dream is real . . . ? .
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,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,Where
,,,,,,,,does ,,,,,,,,,,begin?
,,one ,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,another
,,,,,,,thought,,,,,,,and
,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,end

begin?

end?

begin?




Memory

and

me
a
nin
g

) . . .



listening to: Amon Tobin 'Reanimator'