1. Early and aberrant dissociations. Distance. Personality quizzes in glossy magazines. The pull of the past. Old and new don’t quite cut it. No self-recognition in empty or in crawling crackling time. Cracks. Jarring awareness of the in-between. More than perpetual indifference. But not blissful. The boundary of life and death is just a line of sand. Melting chalk on cracked sidewalks. Dandelions pushing through. Glimpses of something not yet whole. Ephemerality - understanding the duality of existence extemporalis. Lies and transcendence are one and the same, Heraclitus.

2. Trusting one or two faces. Looking past most. Drawing blanks. Remembering little. Remembering it all at once. Sudden, heavy rain on late summer days. The slap of inspiration out of absurd commonalities. Some sort of talent. But for what? Dead give-aways. Gestures, sighs and a flash of insincerity. The shadowy fleshy movement of bone under skin. Blatant nakedness of glances. Freezing at the sight of light breaking on the edges of shiny downtown buildings. The city rages. Colours on walls and tremors at dawn. Premonitions. Avoiding glances. Staring at shoes. Elegant ones, sandals, red, slippers. Staring at shoes. Sweating in cramped metro cars.

3. Dead poets, dead writers, dead philosophers, dead painters, dead musicians, dead cities, dead languages, dead stars, dead gods. Slowly, unknowingly succumbing and becoming a ruin or a riddle - not sure which one’s worse. Dreaming of immortal shapes. ∞

4. Realization boils into rebellion. Inability to revive buried empires for too long. Nothing lives longer than the brief glow of sparks. Is all literature just poetry? Rebelling. Against doors and prayers and simple singularities. Against self-preservation and decency. Against solid lines and the structure of space. Inability to move past destruction. Caving in and cursing left and right. There is something, isn’t there? Raised arm hairs. Drawing blanks. Corners of so many eyes. Inability to move at all.

5. Bad luck - a string of it. Chance and probability, you know? Matter from gamma rays. Boiling water. Iridescent insides. Fuck-up from a family of fuck-ups. Accelerating time. Lost friendships. Bloody nose and stomped over cigarettes buds. Lovers, lovers, lovers. Stained sleeves. The dance of cosmic winds gathering and bending. Cell division blooms into something broken, sometimes. Loss of appetite. Insomnia. Weight loss. Shoulder bump - what are you looking at? Nothing, nothing at all. Raised eyebrows and sneers. Hair loss. It slips the mind. Guilt. Whose? Shouting at the sky:

6. “If I could only get my hands on you!” But divinity is mute. Losing count of the restless feet underneath veins. January. Veins of white. Standing still isn’t an option. Grabbing purpose by the neck. Stumbling on vocation. Apophatism. Fluorescent hospital lights. Biting soft flaky nails. Iron taste in mouth. Scans. Needles. Cherry pie and scribbled prophecies on diner napkins. x = y = z = 0. An acquired taste for angels.

7. The call - of something like heaven. Luminous skies. The touch of summer memories. Edges of edges. Hymns. Stained church windows. Forest green, mountains. Home-sickness. St. Michael, primordial fire. Formless and dangerous. Holy books. Poems. Endless libraries. History. Buried artefacts. Wandering the halls of university. Fall staining trees, red and orange. The cherubim on the corner of the street. Shivering rain. Try to pray. How do you pray? I’m not sure how to put my hands together. Semele, mother of—

9. Recluse. Unanswered e-mails. I’m cursed. Blinking voicemail light - red. I’ll get back to you. Closed curtains shutting out grey light. Unwashed hair. Counting sheep and counting on fingers. Unanswered doors. Hyperventilating. Unopened letters. Unpaid bills and credit cards. Stale air and the smell of old bundled up fast-food wraps. Belly aches.

8. Oh, but you’re mine. Flickering streetlights. Darkest wine. Not as old as Dionysus (Zagreus). Velvet. Crying until sleep claims awareness. Swollen eyes. Alexandre Cabanel. The trembling doesn’t go away anymore. Whispers. Burn of dripping wax candles. Icons look away now. Shameless. The pit of pits. Gleaming starlight. All the books run out of answers. It isn’t my pain. Tender ghosts. Broken heart. Lucifer. Deepest of spells. Compassion. Split-tongue. The language of night. The lowest baseline. From highest positive to lowest negative. How? Missing pieces. Why did you fall, why, why, why—

10. Wake up like a snap to a gap in the middle of the night. Heart going like a race car. Pooling sweat, lukewarm. Chills. Raw throat. This again. The dream wasn’t at all but it seemed like it was. Monumental but a statue of what or who? Heat rushing through veins and intestines. Unable to walk without spasms. Hugging the toilet. Strangled cries rattle. Rootless pain passed down through faulty division. Ancient fear embodied. Bruised dawn. Red eyes, sleepy. Green buds waiting to open. Kind wind, spring again?

11. Empty supermarket. Strolling between shelves. Cold hands. Bargaining with divinity again. Pleading – don’t sap me of strength. Thirsty for rejuvenation. Wondering in circles. Revelations are like swallowing fire. Other dimensions. Grids and high mathematics. These cereals have too much sugar. Multi-coloured hoops. String theory. Empty streets at 5 a.m. Cold beer. Sleepless night. The fall = black hole? Reverberating in the pit of chest. Sunrise, relentless Apollo.

*If the reader finds a few of these descriptions to be accurate, they might be a philosopher, and they are advised to continue reading.