Lingering moments of madness,
    little dreams of pleasure,
    quiet pools of calm,
    dripdrops of pain:
    an imaginary edifice.
    
    In a dream-scape,
    where sketches suffice for reality
    and colors are all the same
    automata blindly wonder, 
    and accept it all.

    Your life ends and begins
    With words collected 
    In clots of modern meaning.
    Vision foams and twists
    the sounds you hear,
    mixing down to blackness.
    
    Mind 
    alone and fragmented,
    disengaged,
    unhurried, waiting. 
    No sense, no direction,
    no care.

    Is this what is?  
    Is this it? 
    The last sentience,
    with nothing after?

    Personal emptiness...
    Stand on tiptoe on the brink
    And look down, my friend.

    Look at the work of a typing zombie,
    A mechanism of fair complexity.
    Look down, my friend.

    Is someone writing this?
    What is "someone"?
    Look down, my friend.

    Retreating in the distance,
    That busy little machine.
    Look, my friend, as it types.

    You read, you understand, you think
    I wrote this.
    You are wrong, 
    My friend.

    I didn't write this.
    I don't understand it.
    I don't read,
    I don't think.

    Thoughts come in pieces
    There is no moment more precious than this.
92-07-30