The Alan Sondheim Mail Archive

I am nearing the end of my life.

There, you have it.
There's no doubt about any of this.
Statistically it's true. And I feel it in my bones.
My bones will leave without me.
Already, scattered thoughts, failings.

The game is on even in the corners.
And I can see and hear. The corners are exact.
Light reconstitutes directly from its origin.
The antennas of the corners are the body's breath.
I am still. Alive I am still.

The body pronounces the body. Catches itself.
The enumeration flails and falters.
I remember circumambulation. It teeters.
Rather space teeters. It sentences.
There is no time for this.
All there is is time.

Banish the comma. Comma cohesion.
Anything is there. There is no name for air.
Light and text are tired. Nothing fails.
Everything is what is.

Semiotic splatter.
Churns and sweeps. The head always falls.
Rather the world. Rather the world of the head.
As of the verge of structure. Always the verge.
I comprehend nothing. Delay. Always the delay.
What is was.

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