a thin death

I hope the people in the ground won’t mind

I dug a hole to place my soul in

Is there any room left in there?

For a lonely fellow nearly as quiet as the absence of sound

As grand as a wiggling shoe string

I wonder what whiteness awaits in this new night

I hope it is as humble and bleak as my previous anti-nonexistence

Just for spite as my pessimism is immune to surly bonds

And the conjecture of intelligence

 

 

I am always careful not to walk over the graves of other people

As if, like property lines, the edges of their souls extended vertically into space

That is a narrow dimension within which not to exist

Of course its length is forever as far as the wizards can tell-

and thus infinitely lonely,

so it goes…

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