300 days, give or take of waking without any hard commitments, no required sentences; the days and nights, all my own- cursed and splendid (okay, mostly squandered, truth-be-told-- but I'll confess no more, no less than being blameless what I've been made to endure. There are no coping skills for extinction.) Nothing matters as the words have. or will. or should. so I shall let myself be selfish, then never share how or when I soak and swim in them; swallow them by bits and devoured whole... Surely now I taste of them. They pour from me and in rare triumphs onto paper- leave me giddy, greedy then complicit while I wait for the end of the world more often than not, I am paralyzed by the tick-ticking, grieving clock- the doomed posterity I cannot stop the contemplation or taking pity-- I keep myself lost in the irony, in the limbo of these last Revelations where there is nothing but to count the all and only days left to come. -B.