P.M.

I guess, my dear traveller, that being sat in my ship will not mean anything to you, not anything different to those worlds that you used to come across to in the cities of desire we disembarked into, in the underground of conscience, in the aftermath of this outlandish will of us all, of this hunger for our novel voyage.

Sat here as I am I doubt I am not indeed moving in the helix paths concurrent to the Greek spiral, willing to lose the centripetal force that only augments this fever within. I asked in the cavern today about our destiny, but it appears that our fate is written with Solomon letters, out of the brisk turn of pages of our lives book. If only these letters came in golden envelopes, if only they conveyed the black forces we disbelief in, we could then stand up and disperse this water onto the grain rivers whose bread will continue to poise us.

As I sat here, my dear traveller, I can only think of the letters that were not written in the letters that I did not read, of mirroring the semblance of scavengers and object dealers alike, of judicious oracle respondents, of you and me, of this slow imitation of life.