I hate the possibility that you are out there somewhere, between torn pages and broken records. Beyond the emptiness and the emptiness belongs.

I hate that maybe it is the reason I can't entirely enjoy the pleasure of real flesh, the tender caresses of real bodies, the minutes and hours of real time.

I hate the possibility of never ending possibilities.


This land like a mirror turns you inward
And you become a forest in furtive lake;
The dark pines of your mind reach downward,
You dream in the green of your time,
Your memory is a row of sinking pines.

Explorer, you tell yourself this is not what you came for
Although it is good here, and green;
You had meant to move with a kind of largeness,
You had planned a heavy grace, an anguished dream.

But the dark pines of your mind dip deeper
And you are sinking, sinking, sleeper
In an elementary world;
There is something down there and you want it told.

Dark Pines Under Water- Gwendolyn MacEwen


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