Dilapidation of the spirit as the heart gives in, the mind gives in.

These three, a triumvirate, laughing.

This bitterness breaks me.

This light at the back of the head cracks the notion’s facade

      and behind it the mind plays its bric-a-brac music.

To find the right image.

To place one’s lips gently atop the flute’s metal, to feel it

      there, cold on the mouth.

I have been on this journey for months.

From the back of the head to the river, it hurts.

It hurts.

I am singing.

Oh yes, I am singing.

My mind is at ease.

I will die like this, penniless.