My feet are dirty, I am thirty, and I don’t know

what I am supposed to do before

it ends.

Pen to paper, ink to brain

tell me what you want

you thing.

My finger is cut, my face is bleeding

I’m laying in bed drinking

coffee in the morning.

If time is an illusion, so is death

since we never stop and it never ends

I’m inside the same second I was

when I started.

October 19, 1987, 3:39pm


christine hauer