Out,
out further,
out in the outermost edges of outer,
outer space:
the muddled souls from Earth pass--
some in agitation,
some with cerebral grace--
and form a serpentine queue
that is always right here,
til sliding down a glass tunnel,
and crashing through a wet mirror
they fall,
feeling
the exhilaration of no longer feeling
fear...
At the bottom, memory
begins to dissolve
in effervescent light
and the puzzle
you have been trying to solve
since the first grade
(no longer important)
is gone...
no trace.
"This journal is not a mere literary diversion. The further I progress, reducing to order what my past life suggests, and the more I persist in the rigor of composition--of the chapters, of the sentences, of the book itself--the more do I feel myself hardening in my will to utilize, for virtuous ends, my former hardships. I feel their power." --Jean Genet
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