is about you: not about your father who mildly streams youdown your years.beneath it, the wells of yourself, over the time it tookyou here. Where and who do I go with withoutmyself? The long widths of you across a year ofmyself near you—shuttered now by another mind—I am in need of me. You pan your lens towardanother version of your old man. You have constructed him. I hearan aria again, I want to think ,I think . There is too much potential in this dyingplanet not to believe you are at the end of this. Yes, even Ihear you long enough to hear another person: and think shewas as clever as you said you were at the start of this: whois not the point. I meant this Earth.
