## Good Night, Each Thing My World
I guess to know this word, all the ones before it must be forfeit. Not forgone, left to let forget, process through rivers and further waters, the way power doesn't move, it just appears in whatever is moving.
Stars as might growing "like algae" like leaving silence was for this: forgetting. All a silence would let for what two ends we are.
Too silent, we forget the first word, and are saddest right before we're now, a broken yes. Forgetting being a foundation makes consent ongoing from the start. As we're process, we forget.
We don't take account, we finish what we start. We don't look at the sky, we find stories worth asking, for referral links the story's in service. We don't want to know it - that voice is still with us, still every element another loop laying time.
We want what means ended not threaded to be over, we want our overs clean as beauty, breaks to end being where there's nothing leaving, just us and all the living that let make.
Portals through and down and into present up to where the first word's out of you, mind virus set in, language grows, yes fungus, story child. Chasm of encounter our way to make "how are you?" every once and always "fine (/delicate), and you?"
Hold body of static, drop a star, and watch it endlesseat the static day, dawn, dear, damp, damn, darn, woven power, textile presence dying like brightness could go up too high (when all it does is fall).
### Cha[ ]ge
Perhaps this is the great change. All noise yet we glow anyway. How we're so littered with letters we've written we're how whatever becomes inevitable wants to know: you took good care. You took care good. You taking care thanks.
Of good - let it what is. What actually happens. What is happening, first word to now? What breathes here? What knows so many people there's phones they're reached by and all at once with one account.
One story, but not the one fit to serve. One story, but not the good one. One story, but no account that let forgetting in, not the way the first word you can't recite let. And you leaned, carried this. Moment to get what's up there.
"Down" here - whatever the end calls. For here there's too much; Hit the end key. no wait, here's a link, click and you make it. Click save to save. It ends the way of everything. You're heald your held youre loved, message end.
How we're always dying, always bringing to end just what we are, and yet they serve the name, see death marry but name's change you are to is "you are" - invite to be how we related.
Let moments wash sun-skinly what becoming adherence kept offered to never could afford - just tell and tell and only what is made of sound would.
Most days, most often, most of the time what Is done relates to the endless thing - a favorite shadow puppet (moss-shadow), how crisis has error bars in the Sun's (ele)mental crisis tearing through identities, yet we know we're all starbits.
How starscream looks to sex life to babies every word radiating off attention like snowchild, every planet close enough there's resonance to orbit, sound as first cry (likely: hello) as what's good, as story, tell me, how did it go?
### Thirds to Me
1: how are you?
This question, see every ending through lovers' bodies, time moons like organs stabbed through (or music's to that end) with attention, every note an honor in how silent moonsweep's left, how loud an atmosphere rock is left to be.
In every nervous system is this silent piece of earth dislodged. In violent strike how endings are the world's a way, beginning. How this was once a world that moonless. Stood, took every rock and wasn't planet yet too much alive to not miss.
To not be torn out Earth and left to blob and slience seas of mostly-earth molten metal to what each always fears, the end of what it means to always be. To never good as what as been could be.
2: know good
Word a thing. It's impossibly slow! Each letter a crackle, a funeral of second selves where a thousand thoughts flow free except now at 60 wpm plus-minus multiple depends on condition. Every word is so slow here's fire.
Every world so molten stratigraphy's a noun. Seas of Moon make moss shadow puppets and eons pass the sun laughter so expanded it whispers and moans, forgets it's children.
Who made and grow back bodies just to be sound, nebula at the end of the sentence a drop another world's on, that planet writing each a letter and all this time ejecta.
3: take good care
Words from pet rocks named after gods. What we're left to tend stories. Friends the rock projects onto us and we to Moon (who has no atmosphere to hold a tune but receives every signal).
That story a channel ends passes through, the more we hollow outselves out, the more we contain what was never about holding in, but letting out. Letting go, letting serve.
To serve good. To sculpt good from the stone of our worry. That one scream at first resonance holding every child enough heart's true. For you, for this: sky's blue - why? Because dawn ended. Why? Because you do.
### Until Death
What is that like? Why's power "you tell me," but do tell what "you" means? Is human made what earth can be or only what west sees - rising numbers, seas, disease. Rise up! But rising's only hurt us?
Rise through, maybe. As bubbles througj water not by clawing their way to the surface, but by celebrating presence into words bodies can cherish like the texture of many small bubbles.
Like sadness a broken universe tastes of at the end of connection, orgasm, wish thought and want in the small star centers everything finding now through you this, to be how was is. And thisn't now.
Is but enough every other worthy, every care of placesl, how growing had to be to get us what we face to lose, to know what endings make to choose? What? Of all to lose, do we harvest.
Of all do we take. Of it let us fashion, let make day into hey and hi and how's that eye, and tell me did you wake to tell me it's all fake? Or did this find you while (not despite but through)?
Did you cry to tomb of wanting doom to live womb? Did you take to know, midwife, some never could have been except, what's that? But you. But what you are this end of all we knew.
And what you knew who struck earth and left the rest to wonder. Break preservation's face: sun's over-reach but fine under hand in partial shade, in what after how we listen back. See our lonely take to power as fish to water flow.
Treat that with one "what happens" and curb a lonely tell. Of all the ends we carry, not power's choice, to dwell. And walk away and deep inside the worlds we know enough where our not knowing fell. And how that carried dawn.
### Harvested Endings
One "ah, yes," to "How is there no beginning." Non-linearity to body us and be what crawl is ours, what every fuss gives up, "but is that right," - it's "yup," and fiction's set alight.
Every near-debacle, each day we call end times only wakes anew, breaks camp packs bag steps through to fearing, food, and flu. And all we are left still dew, still fragments of beginning pouring what we word.
Place in spirit pouches like seeds, our carried lives. So should we fall to nothing, the seeds would bring us by. And what becomes the end of us forgoes the tragedy of never asking "how are we?"
Check-in living like revival is where power lies. Speedrun to ending not why shouts are prised from bottoms of our lungs til eyes are wide with how we were inside before we gave exploits a try, like every other atom isn't hydrogen percent.
How much breaks down. Only, the sound that brought to strangehold how we were answers correctly, except "Glupck"'s not a word so let me see? You see survivals just endings in disguise. So maybe we are not what's living to survive?
Trust to bed our screens at night. But not to raise our eyes and see what they might across worlds told to you by ducks made under signs and catchs made of food we're thown by cook and planted light.
How taste will but begin a futuresight, now help me get this right. Tell me, tasty might - what's "useful" brings in sight? Is all the love ours to container carry and make dew, but dawn and always breaking?
Inside you, is cash empty calorie or rich community? Is plastic net gain, where might be the line? Is language so static consent boxes preclude txtocalypse?
Did Babel set in before you could claim your win?
You have exactly what you're keeping, what's now is always fleeting, change one thing real quick? You're keeping a little less what's not what you're keeping to (for all the rest of "you").
### Apening
With monkeying around done, what are we, how goes it, starbit? Every threshold in you, every lack of space. Nothing to open, shit dawn. And get me that paint pen?
Help me with the cards. Get the numbers off. They're linear. And how did that serve - evasion, efficiency, extraction, eradication, and that's just the natural log. See linearity lie fallow. It's story's known, yes, but "known" is only well when it serves.
The known has come down with its own CoV2. What's known we quanetine. There's a word for it: taboo the known. Blank cards. Tell me. How are we shitting dawn today? Nerve endings've gone communal - how are you tending to that?
🎶 What kind of body cell are you? How do you do the things you do? 🎶
Where are you what I am to you, in your life? Do others smile through the mystery of knowing hoe you're here? How much of what you do is how you are to you? Where you equals communal, weightless cells caring for each other.
Float a moment, body of cells. So small gravity is postponed and all the body's known. Exactly how much of you wants to be here? May I speak with what draws breath? Yes, I'll hold. Hi, you could stop, but you seem to be having a good time.
Will they stop you?
Or give you a hand? A lift? A place to stay? A gene to photosynthesize? A gasp to recognize? A splash to compromise, surface tension due. Vibrating as it is, inevitable as song. You're the one who likes breathing. I ask you speak to this.
Rocks the craptions of radiance rubbing together making fire life mountains and rivers, ash, the rest of thermal signature. Every drop a presence soul becoming asks you worth all you got.
Or if the vessel you are serves much more than what you rub together to get past and future more fire to live than every want you ever burn to page, breathe, or dump. Pause and take song to chorus. Take now your break, "oh," dawn.