Flashing back & forth. Through the time before. This alone & inevitable dying. We'll be okay through the darkness. In the still Parisian night at the Hôpital Saint-Joseph. In the whole world you saved absorbed in the shape and sound for Swann. In a childhood garden in Fujio's arms. In the sickness and health that wecouldn't give life to. In the negative recesses of self where interpellation can't reach you. In those Mid City memories; past, present, and future. In the love that you wear on your arm to remember. In the tune that the Boss left for you to decipher. In the peace that he'll find from the spirits that followed from Saigon to Seattle. In your daughter's eyes where your father's remembered. In the last time you held his that one day in September. In the hell and confusion of five under his hand. In the Icelandic wilderness where you found how to forgive him. In the ghosts of Bergen Street that interfered in love and confidence. In This Galaxy. In the kingdom of transformation, that unbroken curve. In that still point at the center of the turning world. In this self-consuming contradiction. Once more around the sun. The more it turns the more we just deform. While we spiral out singing. Of the things are ours. And the things we can claim. Humbly and in good faith. We're together where it finds you. Guests left in waiting for a host. We don't have to turn away. Remember that. We'll be okay through the darkness. But in this distance. Everything starts to fade. Under the weight of silence... There's a man made of skin and hair & nightmare designs. His spleen stains the papers.
His sex splits the headlines. He only lives through infection. Strapped 'cross a waterbed. Kept alive by ad men & the alchemists. Up in the hills overhead, where they force-feed him compliments within inches of death. And bring back every time to repeat the process. Broadcast his resuscitation on the nightly news express.