My life comes and goes. My life comes and goes. Short flight, free rows: I lie down and doze.
My life came and went. My life came and went. Short flight; free descent. Poor flight attendant.
But the sky, over the ocean! And the ocean, skirting the city! And the city, bright as a garde (when the garden woke to meet me), from that height was a honeycomb made of light from those funny homes, intersected: each enclosed, anelectric and alone.
In our lives is a common sense that relies on the common fence that divides, and attends, but provides scant defense from the Great Light that shine through a pin-hole, when the pin-light calls itself Selfhood, and the Selfhood inverts on a mirror in an Amora Obscura.
But it's mine. Or, at least, it's lent. And my life, until the time is spent is a pin-light, bent. It's a pin-light, bent.