The machine is spinning and I don’t know why, but I don’t want to stop it if it won’t start again. I don’t want to run it if I don’t need to run it, but I don’t want to stop it if it doesn’t start again.
What does it do? It spins round and round but I don’t want to stop it if it don’t start again.
I think of the quiet I imagine the longing I imagine the coldness if it doesn’t start up again.
I’m feeling pretty good, but I don’t know if I should, while the robots are all purring I find myself all worrying if I turn all the lights off will I feel even better and if I miss them all, will they start again?
It’s all bound to stop and it’s all bound to start, the dance it keeps on going, there’s noise and there’s quiet.
I forget how the quiet can move me so. My mind fills with with ideas of expecting noise. When the noise doesn’t come I feel so unsafe and wrong. If I turn the machine off, can I turn it back on?
Will I feel stuck in the quiet? Will I meet the face of God? Will I feel my heart a-Twitter as the chills take over my bones? Will I start to feel a hunger that I’ve never known before? Will I cry and long and rage to turn the engine on again?
Will I see again the stars, as I fade away, myself? Will I regret what i once had when the lights turn off again?
Will I think of my comforts? Will I wonder what I’ve done? Will I learn at last what I had when the engine’s only cold and still?
It was a joy to get it running and a joy to turn it off, I remember the struggle, too! But now that it’s running I wonder what I don’t remember missing. I’m feeling rather numb to all those quiet feelings before I turned the machine on.
The machine is spinning and I don’t know why, but I don’t want to stop it if it won’t start again.
