The whole thing is about sex, and the body's relation
to consciousness. You stay to my left
and listen to breathing. As he breathes
and you breathe, and you imagine a bird is flying in the room
And you tremble in anxiety, and think that
At the center where you are, at the umbilical facade
Of this room, which at first seems a library
or its stacksa loveliness is breathing
and the bird flying in the room
is reading all these books
to our exquisite regret & love's appreciation.
In this mathematical motion of consciousness
the room echoes in its own sounds.
If the future exists
because it may cease to exist,
then death creates the idea of the future.
Is then the past only a memory chip,
disengaged from, at that moment in the future,
therefore we remember the past towards the moment of dying,
loosened chips from our decaying being,
floating to the sky
in silent o o o's
like bubbles floating to the surface of water
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