Visions at 74

The planet turns there without you, beautiful. Exiled by death you cannot touch it. Weird joy to watch postulates lived out and discarded, something crowded inside us always craving to become something glistening outside us, the relentless planet showing itself the logic of what is buried inside it. To love existence is to love what is indifferent to you you think, as you watch it turn there, beautiful. World that can know itself only by world, soon it must colonize and infect the stars. You are an hypothesis made of flesh. What you will teach the stars is constant rage at the constant prospect of not-being. • Sometimes when I wake it's because I hear a knock.Knock, Knock. Two knocks, quite clear. I wake and listen. It's nothing.