Reset Forty-Nine, Day Five

[rejectomorph]

There are big empty spots in my brain where stuff disappears, never to be found again. It ought to be comparable to other things, but what they might be has also vanished. I stare dumbly at the blinds though which morning light now seeps, and try to recall what the darkness was like, and fail. At times I think I'll never know anything again, not even what I knew before, not even what I thought I knew. Maybe if I followed what has vanished into those empty spots? More likely once there I'd just forget here. Wherever here is.

As for this, I think I did it before, but I'll do it again as it has come to haunt me:



Sunday Verse

The Empty Hills

by Yvor Winters


The grandeur of deep afternoons,
The pomp of haze on marble hills,
Where every white-walled villa swoons
Through violence that heat fulfills,

Pass tirelessly and more alone
Than kings that time has laid aside.
Safe on their massive sea of stone
The empty tufted gardens ride.

Here is no music, where the air
Drives slowly through the airy leaves.
Meaning is aimless motion where
The sinking humming bird conceives.

No book nor picture has inlaid
This life with darkened gold, but here
Men passionless and dumb invade
A quiet that entrances fear.