Once we recognise that
what we do is meaningless
we can indulge in our passions.
Will you know yourself?
Is he another man?
Whom does time service;
for where do we have to go?
Can you still feel?
Do you look to the future?
Is memory worth more than life?
I used to know things - he used to know things
where are they? What became of me or him?
It and they appear to me as
the threads of an old life;
it should not be mine.
What do I feel?
What is this question?
Utter mortality;
a cheek to the end.
To wrap it in language
is to cushion the fear;
for it comes in waves.
It used to be an abstract presence.
The less I say the more ambiguous I can be.
On a road of self-destruction.
Suicide could be so poetic.
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