Alas, poor Yorick! I knew him, Horatio: a fellow of infinite jest, of most excellent fancy: he hath borne me on his back a thousand times; and now, how abhorred in my imagination it is
To think of all the high school students reading Hamlet, and awash in the oblivion of the now, cannot discern its true and dark meaning –
The problem being that children and adolescents and the young teens — the builders and the immortals and the killers — have no sense of time, have not yet undergone the existential transition, have not watched years of reason slip away into ephemera/viscera —
Ah yes. The very viscera of life. The whitening water.
Is it any wonder that when they learn of it, they cling to each other? Huddled masses.
In my imagination–
“Sam wants me to turn back time and raise the dead,” says his Mother, my Altermother. Yes. Wouldn’t that be nice.
Darkness. Light. Darkness. Light. The sun disappears and displays the truth, which is a world of stars of suns of endless vaults of shimmering darkness in which the light courses —-
if the universe is infinite it should mean that a star lies at some point along every vector-point in the sky and given enough time the sky of night should be a continuous field of light — the reason it is not is because the starlight has not yet reached us — and apparently never will, because the space between is stretching and stretching and stretching — so that the future fleshlings will never see the lightsky promised — instead they will one day live in what to them will look like a true island universe, a single galaxy that will name after their mother’s milk —
Commodious recirculations. Thought. Memory. Hugin and Mugin, Odin’s Crows.
The hand on the skull. The hand on his skull. My hand on his skull. The last embraces. I am still a child. I still do not know these things. All this writing is but whistling in the dark. A representation of a representation of primal fear. Not the real fear. Not. It cannot be represented. It is just a darkness.
The abyss. The darkness.