I didn't wake up this morning. The sky
remained a deep black hole in my consciousness, taking into itself
all the matter at hand and out of hand. The moon rose and set, moving through its phases in a fit of broken rem
sleep... I jerked from left to right, sat up, went rigid, fell out
bed, slept on the floor, walked to the bathroom, peed in my sleep.
Though what struck me was the lack of
birdsong... where did they go, those early morning harbingers,
calling light from darkness? Then again, where did the morning
go, tumbling down a hill, out of control, head over toe over and over: morning, not
morning, full, half, quarter. Nothing was relevant, nothing was
certain.
Time was warped and speeded up, and all
the creatures great and small couldn't hold on. I was sending them on
a dream voyage, on an electric ship, far away from the known and
the half-known, from grand theories to the waking life where dream
and reality intermix and produce orphan children. There was one of
every age of me in the layers of time, every second of my life
bumping up against another... I felt like
Stanley Kubrick and Keir Dullea, making a psychedelic movie.
At the center of it all, an
exploding sun, the great and final flare, an eclipsed God and a
universal law. Everything must end. I didn't
wake up this morning, and neither did you.
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