Sunday, March 13, 2005

Waiting for signs

Emptiness of a site.
Stricking in its desolation reflecting my longing for improbable truths

It all came different

Who might tell the difference between you and me, Hypocritical Reader?

Slanting

A Floor too cool for Corn.
That's what I am. Or was . Or wish I were.
Dissipated into a moltitude of sounds, I beg for coldness. I beg for the magic precision of a steelneedle.