Please come here. Please. I played with a dream

in a mirror and many many thousands

of birds

 

which are not real. Are not here.

I don’t like it here anymore. Good

people don’t open doors on the present.

 

I can’t see how this same trail

descends. Please come at least

halfway and I’ll fall

 

down into the laws of the present,

into fungal infections and

coital cephalgia which is constant surveillance.

 

 

 

 

At 10:41, June 7, 1984, during routine descent into Orsk. No wind.