When I wrote these lines I was 24,
about a third of the way toward death;
since then 9 years have wound their weird way
past my inner eye.

And still it feels like I was in the crib
only a moment ago

The clock is a farce invented by devils
The dance of memories,
the technicolor parade
of dreams and images and fears,
is like a distant howling wind
I have the sensation of awakening
from an endless sleep,
but I know it's an illusion
The sleep can never end
The dreams flash in and out,
and no matter how hard you try,
you never get them back

Birth and death --
brilliant nothings
And I, just sitting here reflecting,
when I should be doing work
The universe is working:
working to bring itself into the condition
it is already in
Everything is futile;
everything is beautiful;
wonderful chaos