The realization that existence is a memory

in the neural clusters of a forgotten world

is a peculiar insight about a loop in time

that tirelessly continues looping,

beginnings hooked up to ends and vice versa;

a Georgie On The Freeways story,

if ever there was one

Each morning sleeps in its night,

every night is dazzled by the morning light

Death moves out onto its revolving platform

like San Francisco's cable cars from Ghirardelli Square

at Market Street's turnaround,

and jingles away

When you leave, you arrive;

stepping inside, you're already out

but these phrases are only a certain amount of ink

laid out in a certain pattern, that carries – within you;

nowhere else – a certain meaning,

that changes in pace with you

- and nothing is either or

My grave is the surface tension of morning;

the beating 'tween chords of pure intonation

on a Bösendorfer Imperial;

zenith's steady gaze

Every part of me is turned on and off

by the cosmic flow,

faster than anything can die or live;

thus creating the illusion of being

In the shadows, silence is whining

in the loop of the moment;

beginning and end chatting on the airwaves

like the voices of Incommunicado for Alexei Navalny

(https://soundcloud.com/user-782001904-315487351/incommunicado-for-alexei-navalny

or

https://ingvarloconordin.bandcamp.com/album/incommunicado-for-alexei-navalny)