Nothing...

Nothing is to ponder as such. Nothing is to split or multiply anymore. Nothing is to add to the immense nothing. Nothing is to lend or sponge or plead or steal. Nothing is to approach anymore. No craving for the wish-river. It was the perpetuity once, now a simple blot on the wall calendar which is to be ruined this midnight.

He is fashioning the plaster right now. A fragile egg shell mind was crowded. Few of the mass left with one hand in the pocket, few silently stride, and of course days and dreams are never congregate.

Sooner he will post a "do not disturb" board exterior to the beehive. A guitar seventh chord is in progress and he might choke one day or tonight.

The epitaph says it was not love; only fond of.