In your preoccupation with entering the stream,
you turn your back on that which brought you here:
the worlds that would teach you languages that
can speak to those now flitting by.

Nothing speaks to you in this moment, and you cannot
translate the penetrating noise despite your best
attempts at filtering it out.

Sitting on the cusp between the real and the imagined,
you cannot focus on anything but how it's as sharp
as the point of a spear.

You give into impulses that pull in either direction;
you stumble, yet never fall.
You resist--and in that fool's tenacity, you insist
on being nothing,
a subject of neither.

It's like spending the entire Saturday at the end of the world
stringing speaker wire
while having no music to listen to.