Dust. Dust. Dust is all around us, it gets in our throats, choking, I cough, Nothing is said, we are drenched in silence, I scream out, the emptiness swallows my plea, I hear the nothingness and know. what is nothing? there is only nothing when there is expectation demand responsibility talk, nothingness is only in talk it is the talking of nontalking the scream of screamlessness a `coughless' cough. Who are you? the words trickle from my lips into my ear, they are wet with the perspiration of labour and cast a shadow into the darkness, I am lost again . . . Which way is home? the light scatters around me, I am suspended in the bubbles of exhaling giants, the air is old stale of old books and sweat and warm, my skin itches damp clods of earth cling to my bones. . . . touch me we are alone together, a paradox of disbelief, to believe and not believe that we may know each other and not ourselves, do you remember love? fading into the clarity of days to come we search for new songs and watch the polyphony grow in deafening expectation. Show me my face revealed in your eyes, there is nothing else, all the world is in us, we are the discourse, a language to touch the soul of God and the self. or is there a difference when both escape my sight, transcending the words of determination. I am the conversation, always gone before apprehension I dissolve in the hearing and reemerge from the lips of dialogue, like a tree in a forest of listeners we are the keepers of self, the keepers of that which escapes the keeping. filling the air, the dust of our own being, it gets in our throats, choking, I cough.