fan of Dexter?

[softly spoken; perhaps an internal monologue. The ‘thinker’ is surprised / amused at himself upon ‘voicing’ these thoughts. The language is laced with irony].

A lot of the time the answer was in the rain drops – brooding vessels of humanity that they were. [would-be appreciative] Sliding, skirting past. [genuine] The sound of their fall was beautiful. The mellifluous tones(!); beckoning. The rain was nourishing. I watched the trees; [half-hearted] they sigh with the wind. The green below and the blue above. A distant ocean rolls.

The seagulls are speaking. ‘To A Skylark, by Percy Shelley’. Sixth form: obediently comes the memory trace. It is quiet, and swift.

Although all of that has already happened. [would-be surprised] And so it is old. It is the wind that whispers, as such; [relish] my cheek softly stroked. The notion is precarious. That which was, but no longer is; a relentless march onward; ad infinitum. Tense is a word that does not exist. There is no past; there is no future. Only [--] events. The wind’s touch is soothing. She does try.

The trees agree with me; I am probably bordering on psychosis [intrigued-restrained, amused]. What fun. [split] Postmodernist textbooks will tell you that before, light was truth, and now it is in darkness where we find solace. So textbooks can talk.

Emotion is reality. Emotion heaves the soul. Emotion is - the lifeblood of life (!). [serious] Condom brands. Subjectivity, extra stimulating; Soul-heaver, extra protection; Lifeblood; extra large. Life wishes to penetrate you. In all we see, condoms hang everywhere in chains.

I swim in the sea. That is my solace. A graveyard by night.

But then, everything that has come, depends on what came before it. [relished] Nothing escapes a stopwatch. [discovering, delight] None, are, - original. Life is a quotation; followed by a period.

I don’t know if this can be spoken. The pages of history, all together; I don’t think we can discuss the book of reality in a sentence. [would-be serious] More sentences went into the book than the one which sums it up. The balance is, hardly fair. Too much is felt to be described in a small phrase. An etching. People have felt, too much. The world of each person hangs in the air. [recognising strangeness of it] Heavy, but ignored by all. It dangles [relished]on the tip of the tongue. They are never said, vocalised; never given meaning. I can see these stories. I watch them travel down old streets with shops on the corner. Meanwhile the planet spins.

There is much, that hasn’t been done [trail off]. People have, been too shy. They’ve held back. This makes them bad. Should I savour, this memory trace? A trace of memory?

The last word; the pulse. The pulse, [intrigued] continues. Breathing follows; touch ensues. ..What does touch, feel like? [monotone] The bad skin is noticed and the face moves animated. Do you know her eyes. Can you see a soul; can you hear its words. The magic of courtship. I... am envious.

*

A darkness beckons. It calls. I, don’t really want to answer; but I am going to. A dial turns; the dial turns some more. The infinity is predictably miserable. The oblivion expected. I do not know, yet I am all(!).