Christopher,
I don't know
what it amounts to, 
or
if there is to have
any sort of 
meaning to 
what we etched, 
scribbled 
or blabbered, 
in the utmost 
drunkenness 
of times.

I sure don't find any reason for that, now.

2

I was,
indeed,
reading our letters, 
today.

Another time, 
another history,

Wasn’t it, though?

3

Did we merge into 'another' reality, somehow,

in one of those 
in-betweens? 
Thousands, trillions...other.

This 'otherness-es' of mine, 
I tell you, 
it kills me, 
at times, 
saves me 
often.
Vessels of time,
I call them.

Keeping me intact,
from another me,
living in another bottle of life?

4

Flickering
like they do, one of those old light-bulbs, 
a continuum
of ons and offs,
connections and dis
a constant state of alteration between presence and absence. 
Sensations 
that you get 
when you read something like that,

you'd recount, 
reiterate, 
struggle to relate yet,

something,
of such a dampened and distant past.

5

Touched a stone from centuries...millennia apart, haven't you?
I am not only talking about fossils, just the bricks would do it. 
You could touch the cells of history.
It's like, 
alien.

It's as if you have left 
your tap running 
in your dreams 
and now,

you've woken up!

6

It's something of, say, 
stargazing, for example.

Gazing up to something long dead and destined to shine on.
Scares the shit outta me.

You'd say, all that, 
where do I stand,
under the same constellations, 
where once 
stood the first 
women;
they bore 
the seeds 
of their unborn 
matriarchy; 
our 
unholy mother, 
civilizations ago.

They'd do all that. Upon this cursed and curvy, ah, what you call it, soil?

7

You'd wonder, 
where are these stories from,
who told these to whom 
before killing them,
slitting their throats 
in their sleeps,

who sang it in their lullabies
to their offspring?

8

Was it from this 
very barren earth; 
did it all occur 
in such mundane 
a geography?You'd think, 
they've all dispersed now, 
turned to soil, etcetra, 
you'd wish, 
they were seeding you.

9

Do you feel dissociated, like me, Chris, 
hanging 
in a balloon 
amidst all those blooming multiverses?

10

Anthropologists 
you'd say,
they dug our bodies out, 
they couldn't find us in that pile, 
we were dusts, 
we were soil.

All they found 
were the utensils, 
and a golden ring. 
And they made us
into legends, 
in their stories.

How they'd know 
they ain't 
made of the same 
tales of phantoms 
and fantastic ghosts, 
I wonder.

Like the ones I was reading today, 
in all those letters 
from ten years back.