Less time than it takes to say it, less tears than it takes to die; I've taken account <br />of everything, there you have it. I've made a census of the stones, they are as numerous <br />as my fingers and some others; I've distributed some pamphelts to the plants, but not all <br />were willing to accpet them. I've kept company with music for a second only and now I no <br />longer know what to think of suicide, for if I ever want to part from myself, the exit is <br />on this side and, I add mischievously, the entrance, the re-entrance is on the other. You <br />see what you still have to do. Hours, grief, I don't keep a reasonable account of them; <br />I'm alone, I look out of the window; there is no passerby, or rather no one passes <br />(underline passes). You don't know this man? It's Mr. Same. <br />May I introduce Madam Madam? And their children. Then I turn back on my steps, my steps <br />turn back too, but I don't know exactly what they turn back on. I consult a schedule; the <br />names of the towns have been replaced by the names of people who have been quite close to <br />me. Shall I go to A, return to B, change at X? Yes, of course I'll change at X. Provided I <br />don't miss the connection with boredom! There we are: boredom, beautiful parallels, ah! <br />how beautiful the parallels are under God's perpendicular.<br /><br />Richard Brautigan<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/less-time-3/
