faustbuch

a maelstrom of thoughts

in a small phonebooth,

with a horrific smell of

the damned, lonely

streets out there.


he was the most clever

of them all,

but it didn't mattered

anymore.

why would it anyways?


he remembered the

horses being jettisoned 

out of a spanish boat

in the horse latitudes 

and he remembered 

the first chant of

gilgamesh.


he was

 there.


but, was he?

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