the last days

you want to hear this in complete silence, in a room, high up, close to the clouds.

you were listening to this on sunday, as the last tired attempt of the sun to break through the day failed. instead, steps of light, like so many keys. ancient sun that has shone on Aristotle and Buddha, now plays with dust. the older the music is the more universal. and yet, at the same time, everything sounds russian. music that deosn't come 'home', but reminds one of home. Deja vu.

the light glinting through the solid world, the stilled air, like light through a crystal, its oblong patterns reaching your desk, softly falling on your face as you write. you have to stop. you catch a reflection of yourself at work, scribbling like a clerk, the looseness of your hand, the words flowing off to nowhere, writing for the sake of writing, to pass the time...the letter killeth... you think of the pointlessness of a marginal life.

some lives you see, some you don't. you dream of your life being rewound, stretched back twenty minutes at a time, until you reach a peaceful region, beyond words, beyond the full stop, a time before you were, when you were only a thought, the empirical 'I' drawn down to a minimal self, until you see yourself by the light of the black sun.