And here I am in that moment,
leafing through the scattered others.
How the hell did I end up here, in this
chair, in these pyjamas, holding this pen
pressed against this notebook, in this house, with
these people, in this town, with these people,
on this course, at this university,
with these interests, and these opinions,
in this moment that only lives on in
neural pathways and the dried ink clinging to the surface of these pages?
It’s already gone. Here’s where it ended ↑
I think I will play my guitar,
in the lamplight of my room as the night breaks twelve.