Corporeal

Cruising Paradise - for Sam Shepard

                                            Moss      winter    2018

December

I lie on my bed and stare out through the vertical blinds into the smoky white sky, and try to hold onto a single thought.
Nothing comes.
Everything is static and I can't find the answer that I need.
It's like I'm standing at the edge of a long tunnel, calling out into the dark and the only thing I hear is the echo of my own voice trailing off into the blackness.

The end of the road

Revolving towards another beginning

Insignificance

"The man I am writing about is not famous. It may be that he never will be. It may be that when his life at last comes to an end he will leave no more trace of his sojourn on earth than a stone thrown into a river leaves on the surface of the water."
W. Somerset Maugham - The Razor's Edge