The black page stares me in the face like time

The blank page stares me in the face like time

Time that speeds up with every passing second

As the fractions dissipate I save a sentence of my life
to create the punctuation
the manipulation
of my imagination.

What could be ... will never be what is.

Use correct grammar!
Why does it matter? It’s only me…

Conversations form inside my head
It’s not a psychosis; it’s what could be ... that will never be what is.

Books are transcending to an alternate home
It is over
it takes over.

I relive the moments of my alien past and although the memories are wonderful I can’t help but wish I could experience them again ... for the first time.

The mothership looms into view
Again I wonder...
When exactly will my trip be over?
And when will I be back?

The time lapses never seem to matter
All will be the same.

Progress does not bother me in this case
and it does in [some] other circumstances
because as we all know
progress is not always progress
in the positive sense of the word.

Premeditation makes things harder
Expectations are too prominent.

The psychosis [that is not a psychosis] is overwhelming and no other options relevant.

Would you want the peak performance point known?
Could you handle the knowledge of your impending decline
just to be able to relish the flavor
the aftertaste
of your prime?

Exactly as fall summer spring
The worst is yet to come and is felt in the air

TAKE ADVANTAGE OF ME, the sky demands.

And you do
to the extent you can,
but no matter what you do with your time,
The wasted sunlight [no metaphors now] is always regretted.
The dead world [no matter how serene] is inequitable.

The seasons are life.
The most beautiful points will never be known until they have vanished.