Lingering moments of madness,
	Little dreams of pleasure,
	Quiet pools of calm,
	Drips and drops of pain --
	An imaginary edifice, how did it get here?

	I wonder, in a dream-scape,
	where sketches suffice for reality
	and colors are all the same
	-- I blindly wonder,
	and accept it all.

	My life ends, it begins.
	Words collect in clots of modern meaning.
	Vision  foams and swirls, 
	And mixes with the sounds I hear.
	
	My mind is alone and fragmented,
	Disengaged, for the moment,
	No hurry, no wait, no sense, no direction,
	Lost, loony, slipshod and spare.

	Is this what is?  Is this what is?  Is it?
	The end of the world; The last sentience.
	There is nothing after me.  Last exit, mystic provider.

	Why? Why not? Wherefore? and Whom?
	Stand on tiptoe on the brink, on the very brink
	And look down, my friend.

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

	You think that someone is writing this.
	What do you mean by "someone"?
	Look, my friend.

	Withdrawing to an incredible distance,
	That busy little machine.
	Look, my friend, as it types these words.

	You read, you understand, you think
	"I wrote this".
	You are a fool, my friend.

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

	Thoughts come in pieces
	There is no moment more precious than this.