I fling myself to the stars.
In the night, the stars shine down.
The universe goes around and around like
my mind is in constant rotation.
Darkness enters my heart. I am nothing,
compared to the vastness of space
that is cold as my ego.
I am an iceberg.
I crash against the shore of a stormy sea.
I am a bird. I fly through the air and land
on a lone island, inhabited by men named
Darwin and Washington.
This is my story. I retell it to old men in
coffee shops and bookstores.
The Night wears down.
I am distant.