Because

Because time marches forward, because things, but not as they are, continue to decay, because the future accomplishes the degradation of the past, and all its inhabitants vanish like the ancients, even though you can still see their nails on the walls and the steeples of their Holy Cross. But I see a time when each general was a firm particular: the Mother, the Father, the House, before the iteration of an ‘I’, when the ego and the id were one. Why is it the nature of the second to split, so that the one becomes two, and two four, and continues to age while time grows younger and older than itself? But it happens as quickly as a thought, taut between the future and the past, the future, which will be already past, and the past, which was once the future, as far as a point, the blink of an eye. Soon each reality becomes an idea, and each idea a general will – will because only what wants is needed; the Mother and Father are gone. What is love in this frailty, who covets, a child lost, a childhood swathed in bright arms and between shining legs, furry and light as a peach? Idolatry of the rod that spurts light and youth, that divines again the renewal of time? Or the lithe pleasure of things that forgets? Or just another face, another sun swimming in dawn, fresh from the heat of the day? But sex rushes towards twilight, procures death in the birth of another (and another) little rush; the very instinct of lust is decay. But for disease, which we forget, but for pain, which we only dimly remember, to bathe the senses in this hallowed glint of the sun, to dip into the apertures of a hollow only fit for two, but where all of our progeny swarm; to be with a human, and by a human; to be in a human form. I see only moments, the frozen tips of the mountain, peak of the glassy eyed dawn.