every morning
one leg and then the other. there is no spinozian machine de pantalon here. stand, march to the window and let in the overcast wet afternoon. a stiff cold gasp from the streets replaces the stuffy silence built up overnight escaping dreamy depths. i can only recall those last open eye moments of thought circling death, which are still with me now. to sleep perchance to dream and what dreams may come flee upon the waking hour and, death appears once more, unwelcome guest, taking away all appetite.