HALFWAY THROUGH THE COUNTDOWN

In his heart beats a mustache, gnawing the boundless helplessness. He who is left alone for ever can have no time and no one. In the stripping of the seasons The twilight dips its rich golden feathers When autumn comes again. He who is left alone can no longer be comforted by the living or the dead. Unread Apocryphal motions hang on the walls of Time; our moments of memory gradually thicken: the bleeding, leaking wounds of cells are bound up, voluntarily or out of pity!

Those who are left alone ponder a melancholy admission: perhaps they have always stood alone against the threatening World. The Indian winds of time are but fragments of his memory. Nor can a defenseless alliance of defiance provide the impartiality needed to forge new relationships.

To create a sacred protective system out of friendships is almost totally impossible. He that is left alone, let his word be a tame knock, his look a hard glare. It can do no more! He should gather the meagre remnants, to be sure he knows and knows and knows who he can trust! It is necessary to keep, which in many cases is untenable. Soft-bodied, his little dreams are alarmed, then they become prisoners again, because to something still must be faithfully attached, cling.

In conscious loneliness the phlegmatic self-consciousness will cry, "You were always a fool to serve life thus!" - He who is left to himself will find his outcast wakefulness crunching like a skeleton. The deep mouths of caverns open wide, then swallow up the curious longing. Reclaiming minutes now creak by in increasing numbers, for they imagine it may make sense to give back to anyone the right to find happiness, to be content.