retsin

(am i) i am countable. i am the words you jot down on dirty pages and recycled scraps of paper. on the back of a pamphlet i sit awaiting you creation. when did i become a half drawn scetch, shaded pencil marks in your beaten up book? forgotten stories and replaceable characters, stages covered in the dirt of another played out preformance. que the lights. (but they're burnt out). draw the curtains (but they've been taken down). i've read these lines before, we've previously shared this script. i need something more

are you willing to test it, drive me to the end of the line? i ask you, what of my inability to see why the road matters, and the purpose of these lines. you like pavement, i like dirt and grass. roll with me, roll with it. it the time, the night, the darkness, a relativety of human preportions. equinox and solstice, a matter of tilt. 90 degrees.

does name denote purpose? there is no such thing as the length of this month. no time from which to measure its beginning. if i refuse to accept your 30/31/30 pattern, will you tell me that i must? i speak your language, but don't understand your words. you give meaning to the living, i breath life into the dead. i took your hand and we walked in silence side by side. i moved forward leaving you behind (or was it the other way around?). we are paced. we are timed, by a time not kept at all. convention i say leads to boredom. yet pattern you tell me is all that will keep me sane. i am timed by a schedule none existant, i can touch it, but it is not pure. purity is imagination, imagination is quantitative/qualitative.

i am standing on the edge of eternity. just you try to catch up with me.