Postcards from the End of the World.
Fit 7 Bad Circus Night, part XI
When you leave this place, think of it no longer. The windows are cracking in Autumn’s tidal heat, yellow birds of indignation, the claims we keep on our key-chains. I am here no longer, think of me not.
I would have given the right answers if I had been asked the right questions. The suffrage of your interrogations is the basis of your turmoil now. When you forget my name, the wound will already be and appendage of your paranoia. It will no longer need a name.
When you go, you will be reborn in the actions of those you affected. The permanent energy trade, the neural-communicator, flashing on the surface of a mirror reflecting itself.
They will think of you no longer, ultimately forgetting your name. But, you will be the way they walk.