An Eternalist

I have been an eternalist for many, many years, so many in fact 
that I have forgotten the number. 
My memory has reached such a state of corruption 
pierced and violated by an excessive history that each day 
seems a spontaneous miraculous occasion.  

I have now noticed my complete similarity with every other, 
as each day is a fellow of an infinite number of other days.  

I mean to say that I am no one and I am every one.  

I know the complete opacity of my singularity 
and I know the
disappearance of every other self.


A suicide of dawn has gained a wide ascendary.  

An exterminating nihilism
painted in utopianistic rainbows of essential technological toxicity 
is the weltanschauung  of 
our era. What could one expect? 

When the human has abdicated to its own machinery, when code
becomes more important than meaning, when all place is same place?


A nodding acquaintance with death exists in these somnambulists 
that surround me and that are me. 

There is the occasional acknowledgment, 
vague prescience of moments in a dream time that neither
has any control over.   This is the primary tyranny, the one that cannot 
be finished with, the one that we hear most clearly in the language of pain 
and the blunt cry of infants.