he is sincere
he waits for culminating
reason in the folds of icy blankets
brain cell massacre
the hum of machinery
the sounds of lonely technology
warmed by ideas and options
he has always known
the years that poured forth
had always been possessed of a
certain magic
a phantom haunting his own
objects
a decade of painful material accumulated
ornamental and tenuous like
a faded translucent garment
favored
as veritable avatar
playing the part
of himself
it doesn't stop
being night
the chemicals
are always emptying and
become mysteriously
replenished
the circuits of daily
life continually
routed and fulfilled
the familiar strangers are
always waiting to be
reactivated
a distant sound
doesn't alarm him anymore
for a few seconds
he forgets himself
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