Somewhere a million times a day, who counts who, who counts as overlaid texture or mere scenery, counts on a spread sheet that knows no beginning, only newly created zones with mythological plot-narratives, about time and always, perscribed by the eteranl and immutable moving onward and upwards, forgetting degraded circumtances, undoing the done being before excluxivy pitted firm agaist the sky, glowing sun agaist lanolium, which bank account hopes porpety, which bank account garden growth in the sky of mind.

all this is filtered pools
the real flagellant is the story telling state affair
Death march by rule of morality
walking, standing, dying
swayed away by artillery
big volume books and tomorrows thawing dinner
the living that no longer speaks its name
no longer sees themselves as anything but a dish to someone else's amazing burning figurine.

still this is just a box of worms once eaten, gone and forgotten, where no ancestor waits for no one, called obsolete or criminal act of deep sleep, absorbed by mawkish suites and nasty optics.
leaving nothing, but replicas and rements
a dirt now soiled
the ending beginning beginning
replaced by birth of a nation