I stop myself.
The deposit of time settles down.
Questions accruing upon the world
as thick lumps
simmering at the radioactive sun of progress.
This is the memory,
the frail memory of what is disposable,
the reproduction of current trends,
the brief flame of knowledge.
I don't know.
I don't know.
I repeat it as a sacred mantra.
I ignore what I don't know
because in this tide of knowledges
any certainty is stewing in its own sauce
and prevents from seeing the veil of night
covering it.
The brain cortex is just that,
a thin crust
coating the fear and euphoria
and omniscience dreams
of some somnambulist atom.
Or maybe not.
Maybe this is the lucidity,
it is all the lucidity possible in any
imaginable world,
awakened to burn
the firmaments of heaven
and earth,
to melt them into the cosmic dust
until everything be consummated.
