Insert Life Here

The passion in living is gone, and all she gives is her touch. Words no longer work; I am lost, beyond my wildest dreams on the outside looking in and I've got nothing left to give. She is gone, I am gone, I feed off her and words are worthless now. Nothing lives in me. I am done. I am gone, I am dust and there is nothing unique left to say; it has all been done, been done already; I've seen it all and now my time is up. I go fleeting, fearful of awaking you: There is nothing I do to disturb. I am a child of the universe, afraid and unaware; unable to say just what I mean and stranded on this island I call my life. I am 250 feet above the ground, floating over an empty Babylon where no one knows my soul. I never even asked her what her name was.

The poem, the Clarissa in Two Parts -- it was true, you know. She took her place in my collection. That's not what I intended, not at all, but it has happened; gone and done. She has drifted off into the collective and I stand here, alone and still, breathing and praying for a glimpse of tomorrow -- and my heart is on fire. That is the truth, you know. I have no soul. I have eyes that look beyond the world, but there is nothing behind my eyes; just a computer that ticks away the moments, that measures out my life with grains of sand. Rushing towards an overwhelming future, one that has no bearing and no substance, one that is adrift in a future universe, and I am here, dragging my feet along, avoiding my life.

There is power in death, but more in life. In short, I am asleep.