untitled- LEAD ASPIRIN
I'm sitting. Writing. Both of which I'm used to, I am enamored by the silken song of ink as it defies alchemy and becomes a simple stain, a prayer.
Dry and I know this song, as I weep to it like All Apologies. I listen relentlessly-- God may not be in that rhythm, but it doesn't take divinity to answer a pauper's bell.
Am I a writer? A musician? An artist? Am I anything at all? Or do I deserve to be buried in ground unconcecrated by the stars?
It seems my malady of mortality has me forgetting these questions that once swarmed me like a rose scented glass and I must return to them.
My answers lie in a library near the grave of a cannibal. Only the dead can answer a question of life.
I'll look for God in Paris.
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