Anhedonia

The century turns its turn again on Anhedonia, but there is no Spring there

in Anhedonia.

And...though the nightlights are soft

and though the videotaped movies are there

nothing happens or passes by

nothing but the high Boeings

the high Boeings cutting the blue cellophaned sky of Anhedonia.

An angel flies in Paris, and a baby is born [almost] in Anhedonia

and it's so far far away from here

because she only lives in Anhedonia

and she made a pact with her blood.

I don't need to come back

...as the anal humidity of the night shines lit by its own alphanumerical condition, something is telling me that...I don't need to come back

back to Anhedonia.

In spite of me, I move forwards, always onwards, towards, standing on my legs

because I can stand forever.

As the binary digits of the night shine lit by its own.