the dead know they are dead more than we know we’re alive I write therefore I’m typed which is why the children murmur
last and first are badly named there is no last world only first persons fate is beauty, madam of what would be surprising some things are unrehearsed
death’s too full of being immortal of course but filthy the thump of an iron reminds us of the real the reader stands with back turned I, lost in its premonitions
