Til i morgen klokken 08.00 skal jeg have skrevet et slags abstract, minimum en problemformulering for min eksamensopgave Samtidslitteratur: Depression, men jeg kan ikke. Ha ha ha. Jeg er for deprimeret. Meta, min ven, meta er vejen frem. Jeg er for træt, for syg, for ligeglad for "de ting der plejede at betyde noget for mig gør et ikke længere", bullshit, perspektivet har ændret sig en smule det er alt og jeg tænker oftere og oftere, hvorfor bruge tid på andet end det absolut sublime? Kan dø når som helst, hvad så? Hvad nu?
Approa ching night, in thought, I sit and write
some son nets Shake spear e an
shakesperean sonnets instead of preparing for classes.
× / × / × / × / × / (x4x3) abab cdcd efef
× / × / × / × / × / (x2) gg
To look upon thine face is to stand at the edge of day, the last beams of light beforehand so glorious and plentiful flickering before
the nightfall ever nearer and know fair well that this beauty is at once more excellent than any that was looked upon in full sun and also closer to death approaching. It is not for eyes like mine and yet I must grasp that sight and hold it within my meaty walls of heart or surely go mad. We shall wither, strands of straw and specks of dust but we may look at horizon eternal and smile.
To look upon the disc that is thy face
to stand at edge of waning day
is no thing than to stand at edge of day
to stand at edge
how touched it is
''last of light
the last of light beforehand glorious.