Looking out the window to the south, must be 20th Street there to the right.

Apartment houses, a motley high-priced bunch. And palms – date, areca, fan.

Probably Mexican fan palms. The California fan palms aren’t domesticated much.

Wild magical Palm Canyon. The mind is busy with names and places, doing its job.

Cars queue at a four-way stop. Constant movement, all within Your stillness.

For a moment I dissolve into You.

Nothing to say about nothing.

The doctor knocks and enters to cut out a piece of flesh that has become murderous.

The quiet crunch of sawing and smell of burning meat.

I hardly notice.

The body is still abuzz with nothing.

You’re being very good says the nurse. I want to laugh but he’s got his scalpel in my face.

I am remembering the joy of not being. Anyway,

Nothing to say about nothing.