Memory Hall

Memory Hall, 'fest time...

Memory Hall

The performance that stood out was the broken pen asking me to work on perfect paper.

Somehow I tolerated breakage., fanned doubt.

Snuffed hope.

Or at least tried. I rose up from it's grave grave.

Searching

deep inside Helge's creation: function, in blue, was found.

Now I could smoothly opine and cross boxes of approval and dis.

The man of ticket occupancy should never subject the living to stuttering ink- spitters. Yet today, that seemed to be his business.

I, as this Writer, could not leave my tool/weapon with such a one.

Not on my brightest Saturday or darkest Friday. There are universes to build.

Couldn't just sit here, could I? Had to capture this world-illusion. Surely, we experience it as it experiences us.