Cheek to pane, I feel the coldly condensed surface.
I am bodily bound but clearly no longer on board.
I am a-sea, dancing over the horizon.
Turn on, tune in, drop out...of frame.
Apparently connected, vaguely productive, we are obviously not ordered.
Tick a box, a series of boxes or put a cross if you prefer. Go ahead tick your life away! Tick, tock.
Seriously, how do you count freedom?
I fear we are suffering from universal madness. I even have a name for it:
Obsessive, Economic, Compulsive, Disorder
How will you value meaning to me?
How long is a piece of art?
How much does this cost?
Why are you here?
Who cares?
What does the market know?
The ghosts took their time, they didn't reveal themselves to others.
Don't count on me to give you proof of their existence.
What I saw and am witness to has no scientific grounding.
I have no fear of absence.
Poetry is prescience
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