To sleep a day and awake and not know what to do is
what is the beginning of a new beginning
to the end of the end
that comes after the beginning.
That is what that day is.
The day that I woke
to own the beginning of the beginning
of the end and went to the toilet
to begin the ending of the end.
It was that day
I got caught
in the vortex of repetition
and unwitty regrets.
When no one was home
during the day
I still kept the music soft.
When I cooked breakfast in my pyjamas
and only washed half the dishes.
When I was cold and I could see the sun shine outside the window.
That was one of those days,
those days that pile up,
up to constitute an unacknowledged
flavour of consciousness.
Like stock time.
Just the nutrients of time:
Just that it passes.
And the unwritten letter
stays. A promise of another day,
another day that is a high note.
One of those days.
near the beginning of a beginning,
even if it’s a short beginning,
that ends before you notice it. It’s something
you remember to remember.
Then there’s these days.
Of memeless meanings.
I am here again.
At the same beginning to a beginning
of an end near the end of the end
that comes after
the beginning and
before the real