CHARLIE HARTMANN

Smooth iridescence on the TV. Static brightness of Nothingness. The sound of a paper that someone squeezes through centuries. Millions of black and white dots and electric voracity looking at our faces. The End of the Sign is reflected on the sleeping bodies - the last sign of a dead world that spins between the galaxies and collides with empty planets causing deaf detonations in the universe without God, in the mathematical space of black and white dots. The viruses crossed the ether without any dispersion, adjusting their neon suits, lighting cosmic sectors of measured electricity and life in an embryonic state. There is no carbon. There is no oxygen. There is no photosynthesis. A woman scrubs the sink by sticking her delicate fingernails that will grow when she dies: the dirt ascending up to the elbow. There is NO carbon. No oxygen. No photosynthesis. It is another image traveling at the speed of light. And it will take millions of years to be seen somewhere in the universe.

The old women sleep. I watch the TV. No signal. Something is over and I can't explain what it was.

Charlie Hartmann

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