If you live your life waiting for wine o’clock every evening there’s something wrong with how you are caring for yourself throughout the day.
The sure extinction that we travel to
And shall be lost in always. Not to be here,
Not to be anywhere,
And soon; nothing more terrible, nothing more true.
Performance without rehearsal.
Body without alterations.
Head without premeditation.
Leaving behind nights of terror and fear
Into a daybreak that’s wondrously clear
I love a sunburnt country,
A land of sweeping plains,
Of ragged mountain ranges,
Of droughts and flooding rains.
We have so little of each other, now. So far
from tribe and fire. Only these brief moments of exchange.
There is the voice you can still summon at will, like your mother’s,
it will always whisper, you can’t have it all,
but there is this.
Out, out, brief candle!
Life’s but a walking shadow, a poor player,
That struts and frets his hour upon the stage,
And then is heard no more.
and there was a new voice
which you slowly
recognized as your own,
that kept you company
as you strode deeper and deeper
into the world,