——-The setting may seem to be lasting, but it isn’t eternal. The impression is flowing from one moment to the next, on this streetcorner where I arrive once again, stop and pivot.  The abberrant thought always hits me, right here. I think that reality cannot be witnessed by those who have left reality; for the vantage point is gone. Only the living can witness life, time is a medium all around us . . .   It could be that these great souls, the dead, these people who have passed out of life, have an alternate view of it. But that is just it, isn’t it? It would have to be quite different, unheard of, and  just to the degree that I hear the silence of the night around me.  Life is a  privileged arena, a totality without escape routes.
——No aerial view exists, that drumbeat scene just persists, and slightly alters its messages; the damp shadows, the unfocused moon beyond the splintering red lights, the brick wall–this is obscurity, tenuous, and it is all we know. It was the silent happening of the traffic light changing that quietly informed me, once again. A thought already formed, it just jumped into my head. The dead, nobody in history, knows I am here.
——I get the chilling idea that this world is on its own, and many others have gone off to join a different, majority view of the universe at large. This obscure street corner in time is abandoned to the only witness of one who passes by–whose forcible thinking drives him to dire, but spectacular conclusions, severing the moment from plausible eternities, condemning it to shreds of  memory.  Then I have to ask, where is this held, and how can it compete? I mean with the superior arrangements the dead have already discovered? I think to develop a superior attitude myself, as one who is stranded in life. In a mocking tone, in surviving, I challenge the baseline mystery.
——Many songs convey the idea, a scrapbook of emotions can be teleported to the longed-for dead, who are pictured as grieving.  Quite sincerely, with faultless lyrics, he or she absurdly tries to reckon a radical isolation, but in reality the night has louder voices.  There is no place to stand outside this whirling of artificial lights, there is no upper atmospheric view of things happening down here, in a skirmish.  As I bend down and pick up a nickel on the sidewalk. Or decide not to move, but stand rock still, which gets me only more into the center of this .  . . infallible universe.
——Time surrounds you, is jealous, it has sewn up alternate routes, including those in your thoughts. Memories are time-stamped, earthbound,  labelled in chronological order first of all. Oh yeah, that is the truest thing I have said yet; one knows more or less when it happened, even when they forget the what.  What might still be under discussion! I know exactly the order of my emotional discoveries, and cannot be controverted, in that arena.

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