—–I am trying to get at this sense–that the sight in front of me is restricted. It exists as a kind of finality, and a completion.. Radically alone with it, it represents a guaranteed communication, and part of that communication says: the dead cannot see this, they do not know it is happening. How can the dead know that anything is happening in this particular world, even though they were once here? Don’t say this so bluntly, cautions a voice; but I feel that if I speak thus, in fact I am championing them, just as I become more timid, and obscure. These are notes for a novel I am going to write, called The Time Before the Moon.
—–In this novel, I will make it clear, coinciding with my sense of awareness and a sight of the floating moon is the signal that life itself is irretrievable. Emphatically this is true,  because the scene is only occurring at this moment. I may have leisure and strategy to think, and plans to persuade others of my nostalgia for this world–but this scene itself is unreachable for anyone not here. This is what will make clear the obvious fact that the dead are not here, and have no recourse to visit us now. The world is geared for transit only within its own scenery.  This, tonight (in August), is the chief communication I get, as I listen, having tracked this mystery many nights, always getting new and braver insights.
—–Or maybe in a no-holds-barred lecture, disguised as  a stern Philosopher,  I will  simply announce my findings. Even there, the rhetorical will be the way to rope in the recalcitrant–those who are unwilling to just quickly agree. I don’t even want to quickly agree myself, I too am afraid of consequences. But one way or the other I am trying to explain, explain that it occurs to me that if you are gone from here, you cannot see it again. Surely those dead who were once here cannot possibly peek in. This is the shock that visits me, that the dead cannot see me on the street. They are shorn of all means of perception, since they fled the earth, and were disengaged from here.  I am trying to put this delicately; for the shock is equally to realize how stranded I am.
As if rigged up especially to freeze my thoughts in helpless contemplation, the scene is gone as soon as I pivot. The traffic light, the street lamp, the moon. Nearly perfect semblances of all these stark realities, in a serial show, give one the impression, in the dead of night, that a spirit could be watching from on high. But this thought is dashed, in this mood I am trying to get, by the fact that this is actually happening. Time is real, if you can watch it happen. In a moment turning back, everything  is still there for me, but it is later.  It is different, and I am jaded, compromised, I have learned how alone I am. While the difference is a shadow on the wall, a shift of light, and no one previously here can save me from this moment. Maybe someone down the block, walking fast, can interrupt me, and will. I stand with the frail mix of lights around and above. It is the chill sense of a departure, a crushing defeat, it seems to me, of the ambitions of those who once strived to experience the world, during their lives. Like they were only able to be visitors . . .
——Now the superior mystery I feel is not felt, or solved by them! Nor will it be viewed, from the bleachers of another world, or sensibly encountered by anyone who used to be here.  Not a scrap of what goes on here . . . has a communicating substance; it can’t go out of here, but the moonlight cracks its face on the sidewalk. Sadly, the meanings I derive, have no wings, and life does not go out of here. Radio waves die in the atmosphere. We are lost in a reality that does not persist in the long-term interests of anyone, really . . .who ever lived on this street.
——And yet, I continue my report as if it were of interest to all, all who ever were and are to come. As if there is no time before this world of time. I am consoled by the futility of my great project of awareness. Which now requires denying the prospect of a time like this, beyond this time. For it is too specific, and it sure becomes a puzzle what has happened to anyone who was once here. When the message I get from the street is that this place is drastically limited, it needs my attention, and yet it savagely denies my attempt to study it and reach a conclusion about its place, ultimately.  Ultimately? Words like that are futile . . .
——Now I am stalling, staying with it, I will make articulate this feeling, that there are no other realms for us who . . . are not dying. Do you see? One is dedicated to life.. Imagination is voracious, and just so, vanquished in any effort to prop up, say, a heliport to another environs.. Or a bead game merely of the mind, so on a sliding scale one could tease oneself into a new awareness–that did not involve landing on your feet again, walking home and into the kitchen. You cannot do it, and only the person you are can perform these feats. And nothing goes out of here. The wind on my sleeve is doomed to die away, or recirculate in this closed system. The moon gallivants over all, and there never was a timeless, moonlit street.