The whistle

I began again to wonder at the whistle, not that it was any louder than usual, no more than a tremor. Only that after a long period of drone, succumbing to drone, living only by drone, I had started to hear the whistle somewhere else, somewhere I knew not. And as the whistle died down again there I was, back at that strange house in France allergic to all and to myself or between Zurich granite shimmers, wanting nothing, knowing nothing, unlearning my needs and wants, desirous of no end, for everything had ended, had passed, there was no future because no movement could happen there and so I shrank I bludgeoned, so the whistle went on. 

time no year

Dark magic, or simply, dark
and a fetid tree

The yule brings little more 

not so much expected just

the mere mumbling fact of aliveness

alive, in want said or must

and what then, to do about need

Avarice

To be greedy in one’s giving 

The why and the how

 To remain in presence and to insist on it, and not to travel farther.