Less Time

 

Less time than it takes to say it, less tears than it takes to die; I've taken account

of everything, there you have it. I've made a census of the stones, they are as numerous

as my fingers and some others; I've distributed some pamphelts to the plants, but not all

were willing to accpet them. I've kept company with music for a second only and now I no

longer know what to think of suicide, for if I ever want to part from myself, the exit is

on this side and, I add mischievously, the entrance, the re-entrance is on the other. You

see what you still have to do. Hours, grief, I don't keep a reasonable account of them;

I'm alone, I look out of the window; there is no passerby, or rather no one passes

(underline passes). You don't know this man? It's Mr. Same.

May I introduce Madam Madam? And their children. Then I turn back on my steps, my steps

turn back too, but I don't know exactly what they turn back on. I consult a schedule; the

names of the towns have been replaced by the names of people who have been quite close to

me. Shall I go to A, return to B, change at X? Yes, of course I'll change at X. Provided I

don't miss the connection with boredom! There we are: boredom, beautiful parallels, ah!

how beautiful the parallels are under God's perpendicular.

 

 - Richard Brautigan