What remained, but run from it, or in defeat, relent. Either to fight death, alive, or, take it to death, and hold it there: what is the same for both, is everything. (“Your death is so (de)void, absolute,” a man said long ago) I will run from you, how much can I warn you in advance—you who are so unknowable, so unknown, perhaps, to even yourself—that at last, the last laugh will be mine, and yes that means, there will a sound of me before you ever know me. To never see you— to never know for certain you aren’t already here, but in the last, nothing will have changed: for me to have kept farthest from me, what was known.
In such a secretive affair I am alone, untroubled, rocking to sleep the enduring dreams. And if I have lost even what I sought, and if you were the only one willing to show me, your show is but laughter, when only it took so much less, to show. The expectancy you anticipated collapsed under the bleeting signs of tears– roaring.
