when I awoke first I assumed it was later morning and I could barely see out of the crack of my window, the time of day deceptive because the house always has a dim glow never brightening but never dark either. I sat up in my bed and the lucidity of awareness hit me all at once. There was nothing to grasp at and no uncertainty, just the calm peace of understanding about nothing. There wasn't even a hesitation in my mind as I sat there considering the time of day. It didn't matter. Outside a fog is rolling over the Point, the harbor covered in a thick moving cover of white & the hum shriek of a saw cutting down below. An erasure has come on, unsure as to whether it is a product of the sublime or a spent engine waiting for more gas. tomorrow has faded spending days here. no point in waiting for anything, the wait is a trap. It begets more waiting.  I am responsible, I am stricken I am prone to Rise & Fall and Rise again. There is now an empty church on the corner of Home, vacant with dust on the pews even ants and insects gone because the air has become polluted by the ravings of ghosts. No one enters. The candles all burned down to their very end of browned burnt up wax drips; An organ with most of its pipes missing a reminder of when the church was at its own fall and thieves ransacked the organ to melt the pipes down. Not even lost people wander in and stay the night, not even if the most horrible thunderstorm cracks overhead. The homeless don't count it as a home because its not. Let us take solace in knowing that with sleep comes the realness of our infancy. Failure is like a guide, working its movement on your body to tell it something important. Running away from the guide only leaves you lost in wild with very little hope of survival; and an illusion of survival may come to you at your weakest and you'll latch on hoping that its the guide. But its not. And that will be the test for you. Failing came back anyway and when you recognize its face the smile of learning will weave a brocade. It stopped being failure and became that guide. Like pain. Its all like that.

I want to shriek and wail Scream, become a horror of expression to the point of burning up or a big orange explosion, fire lancing towards the sky and horizon, a burst. The concern is that there would be more for me in that, then there is now. Which could be regarded as not shrieking and wailing Scream. There are wars and pains and a whole universe which to response is appropriate-why then Am I simply acceptance. I remember the rack long ago. And it stretched my bones telling me the very thing I just said. And almost everyone has been on the rack before, stretched to a degree, so that when they get off its just bliss knowing that the immediate pain has stopped. Farce. Fucking farce. It'll be back in the coldest part of the year.