Remaining through morn

in the bedroom sleeping bag

at the farm outside Niemisel,

apprehending something big

when winter stands as fallen from the skies

(before the badly insulated Per Albin house

from the1930s

has been warmed up

through collected efforts with firewood

out in the boiler room

right across the courtyard)

is presumptuos

The Big Thing hangs in the balance

as it is

The small thing isn't particularly small either...

The entire Universe is layered in the different keys

of incredible departures

and far too many arrivals to keep track of

For each heartbeat in every cardiovascular system

the Universe stands blushing

in billions upon billions of galaxies

Each opportunity stands aggravated

on the MIG/MAG-welded surface tension of each instant

The Dead are point blank goners,

and all stray ideas would gather

in one single disappearance

if the costs went down

enough

for us to afford engaging the geothermal heating

But each existence is a gyroscope

on which everything depends,

from thought to action

and along everything in between

The Sky arches;

the Body – duly assembled and mechanically elegant -

strolls off, in act & purpose,

in step with daily & hourly

In the aftermath of everything

follows its consequence

Refluxes torment the overall experience,

but once a year, Dr. Stina Schell restarts

the blessed prescription

Around us, the constellations are always at hand

in Stockhausen's TIERKREIS

and life undermines itself

My Self is a peephole

The Universal Alter Ego is on its knees, gazing

Come to think of it;

if I remain up in the bedroom

yet an hour,

Anna will have stepped out

into the mad cold

to hammer the wood burner

unto its maximum:
https://soundcloud.com/user-782001904-315487351/sonnenklang