After midnight the existential maw yawns. A black cloud, an ink blot. It is all about death you see.
Sitting on the bedroom floor, folded in the shape of an apple, in prayer. I need do little, just realize I need do little. It yawns - reveals itself - and you have to sit with it.
Just sit and look at it without . . . without what? Rancor maybe. Maybe forgiveness.
"I will not value what is valueless." It is all about money, actually. Look at your greed, which is rust-colored, a weathered screen.
The existential maw! Not this personality nor even this body. It is good to be Martha - or wait - Mary?
At night Mary comes and sprinkles the sitting figure with rose water. The shadow of the past is revealed. Let me say aloud at last I don't believe in God.
But. But you are in my thoughts where - I hear - the company is fine.
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