past time. I was trying to create beauty and something died. I was trying to create anything, meaning, I was trying to believe and something died. I rolled over and found nothing, the other side. It asked why before I did I didn’t know responded what came since. Stupid powerless out of control. Felt myself being observed. Turned again while the light was different no absolution was whole. These ghosts have a long route from form. They stay silent, fight the violent contextualization of language, message nontraditional, séance. I want to know their secrets. I am stuck with words on my experience. Chant mantras of my own making until they lose definition. Blahfuck blahfuck om diddy tschtsh, drip eyes open. Am I getting closer? The room grows darker, time has moved, is closer forward? Night is quieter, less interference from sunwaves, survivor mindframes in the alley. These walls are thin but significant. Stashed blankets, locks on cereal, curdled milk. The thick smell builds a buzz. In destruction, establishment. The expired goods of a dying sink creates more than I do. Waft of life. I light incense with a gag reflex, smoke is a natural actor. How many more haunted stages can I construct for it to float through? There is dust on the doorknob dust on our toes.
Is it easier to kill or die? Depends on the question.  How long has the banana peel been in the garbage, that fly on your nose?
I have been practicing barely breathing, I need to practice harder. The moment will come. Values relative to its denomination. One moment of the total, one of what remains, one moment of all available, one moment of potential. The final moment only cares about its own. If I practice hard enough, perhaps I can control that second, perhaps the hysterical moments are practice for that, control for the first time of the last one. The moments strung, love. Love is practicing for death. Love is an original death. We love together, we still die alone. The loss of love is the nearest to death we’ll ever know. Is it inevitable? Temptation too much to bear for suicidal curiosity lacking the courage ultimate to overcome attachment’s instinct. I abandon love, I seek more love, all the love from everywhere, it burns through so quickly. It leaves hate, there, inside. So I hate too. I hate happiness, I hate virtue, I hate what makes me feel good, I hate you. I love you. I never achieve either. Knowing it’s impossible, some still try it. They hide in the city, hide in the forest, hide from each other, find company anyway. Talk and talk of what cannot be said. And nobody knows.                                                                                     MATT CLIFFORD