The knife is in your teeth, you are on the side of what is to be, you will not falter at the throat of this cold night. Taking that one dramatic leap to what really is, you will emerge as an important figure. Your heart and brain are steel, and this city's a magnet. How did it get to be so late in the day, or early in the morning, your angel or devil. The light pulls itself up for the last time and I put down my paintbrush in a hurry of color and flash. I have a memory of something that happened to me many years ago and I put down the brush for good and know that it's all over for today. Yours is the beat generation of the future. It's details unclear, and its meaning undeclared. Like an undeclared war. What was I? What happened today? What have I become? The seperate history of all, the future history of each: A head modelled after the antique. I imagine the future as an oil stick drawing, the outlines blurry and familiar. A few details appear, just a few, strengthened with charcoal, a complete lie. I don't see anything at all, except a set of teeth modelled after my anxiety, then lost in profile.
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