Distant screams… they leave me cold. What to give and what to hold? Wandering along the river, reflections of a past long lost, a future unclear in the impenetrable fog. The days we mourn are today’s scorn. Cut. Away. None of it seems possible but if we were to leap into that fog where nothing can be seen, not even contours can be felt; a new world to shape with mud so repulsive it keeps us from even commencing. Anguish adds to fright, binds and tames what might. A stream of discontinuity so enshrined in my mind it seems coherent and must be protected from any break with the past. Noise, that weary noise, if drown you I could, might I see clear, might I hear the birds’ song, feel the current strong, flushing, clearing, white? But it is never white, is it? Grey, endless grey. Cold but porous. Giving the illusion that one might be able to break through, an illusion nonetheless. False hope or false remorse? Whatever life is, it runs its course, is coarse.

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