In case it is not clear, this is a diary. Aside from my true life there are certain appropriations, and certainly unfulfilled desire. The rumbling of my mortality dislodges small rockslides of regret. Things I would have given into, such desires as having the quality of my undeservedness to their fulfillment. A starving boy at the feast, again refusing to eat.
Now the slow method of winding up, the beginning of the last act- I missed the intermission, I was in the bathroom- it still is not decided whether this is a comedy or a tragedy- as if it really mattered.
As I gather little acorns and make them mine own- in the gleaning there may be some method of understanding- the unified field where the grid of the continuum stretches out forever in all directions, no vanishing point anywhere you look. 
The only vanishing act is ours. "We are in love with what disappears*."
* "I have not lain with beauty all my life
and lied with it as well,...." (Ferlinghetti, again)
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