Today minus sixty-eight years, in the early morning hours, my mother brought me into this death, this dying-living, this mystery-journey, this finite thread of visions, illusions, pains and pleasures, and thoughts— thoughts that go on chattering like some old men with dementia who speak because they can't stop. Even recalling this birthday is a chattering thought that comes uninvited. Sixty-eight years from now, I know at least this chattering will have ceased.
Rest
Rest
Rest
Today minus sixty-eight years, in the early morning hours, my mother brought me into this death, this dying-living, this mystery-journey, this finite thread of visions, illusions, pains and pleasures, and thoughts— thoughts that go on chattering like some old men with dementia who speak because they can't stop. Even recalling this birthday is a chattering thought that comes uninvited. Sixty-eight years from now, I know at least this chattering will have ceased.