ready, aim, fire.
ready: that which is ideal
aim: that which is the projection towards the ideal
fire: that which is puke.

Mary had a little lamb.

easier for her to be without one.

awful to take away
awful to give her one
just let her be
the little lamb will grow up.

I, can only wish, to write like, Beckett, only, possessing me, no spirit, no life, just fingers, typing, then, there will be answers in the typing, and not, the product that comes with a plan, but the meanings are discovered during the process, and as the words flow, my mind, branches off to unimaginable places, bringing, spreading the fruits and seeds, easier that people do not see them, and I can cry alone on my bed, even if I am left alone, I'm never alone, if no one could listen, then I'll listen to myself, whisper words I never heard before, I heard so often, with you, near, always, I speak and hear my own voices, then we can imagine, no worlds in between, but just the suspended dream that I have no wish to fulfill, little by little, the wind I believe in so much, even if it knows my name, I'm pinned to the wall, and I see, birds fly, maybe it's all a little too painful, but it's so liberating, to know someone who bothers to carry me up, and I can rest easy, knowing I have the attention, myself as audience, time will not mean much, this is when I realise I'm so alive, then the wind will be so cooling, the rain will wash away my sweat, and I will refuse to say anything more, for they have been spoken before, the story has been told before, I'll leave it to patience, the patience that suffers the overflowing words, without reading in between, but staring at the black void, spaces of infinity, then you find yourself staring back, screaming back at you, in front, then a pat on the back, you hug with such strength, I can't breathe, I can't breathe, no more, we find things overloading, no space, there is no more left to spare, to spare a thought, I can't save you, I can't save myself, I cannot pretend, no longer, my brain is falling apart without a skull, and there is no one, still no one, after the hug, the warmth lingers, but it's fading, return is imminent, but when? the wait is long, the fig tree can withstand, chimes, bells, hang some on me, play a music I have never heard before, then the wind will come again, and lift me high, the words will slowly mean nothing, but the joy that comes from not understanding, shall, ever again, bring me words to say to you, they burn with something I cannot describe, but we'll be happy, not now, but we will, sleep now, o, hanging me, now there is no one to listen, no one to watch, but rest assured, there won't be oriental drums, I won't cry this time, before we end this, before, always before, before the inevitable storm, rage! the implosion happened long time ago, residue, that which is the end, these words, form, Gestalt is not even imaginable, and we will somehow feel our way through, through light, with black darkness, and come so close to the Tree of Life, that we taint it, fire will engulf again, and burn again with renewed virtuosity;
on the surface of water, near a beach, as if, nothing ever happened before, except that fullness, that is the point; there comes a point where there is no return; that is the point to reach.

first note on the piano.