Time is mine to fear in the eyes of serene nights filled with playful antics and a loneliness that now seems to be missed. Almost half a moon has passed since our last encounter. Meaningless pages come before you but this is the poem of all poems. A forced existence now serving as a blanket where careless sheets of faded prints used to cover. When the sun lets you return to an age of the present’s past, it is not he who plays the fool, it is I, it is we, it is you. Indifference thrives in experience as only the purist of pure can relax in the mind of the knowledged for this contains importance, this is the poem of all poems.
November 6, 1997