madness

that crept up on those who slept, who never wept for the death
of their full potential. But that's over, nowhere now here, someplace,
anyplace is all that matters for the one truly lives, who gives
full credence to the weight of her words so they don't weigh her down
like the stones in V. Woolf's pockets as she plunged into the river
in a London fog. No, we slog through these swollen waters bursting
through our damns so we don't dam the flow of thought, of curses,
of prayers that mark our existence, nourish past mere subsistence as
we scribble them in notebooks to give them their very own esoteric lives. 

Nowhere, now hear what happens when you play with little letters
like a Cabalist on crack, your world turns black so you can reinvent
yourself a million times over until your life goes from nowhere to here 
now. A sinusoidal, post-coital epiphany in the pleasures of those
mundane moments that make up the majority of our lives. Bee-hives
of activity that matter not save for how much of ourselves we invest in them.
Be here now, now here, buzzing with the energy of one who knows just 
how short the hours really are.