By the time that Now is acknowledged
The Current is washed away
For Now is Never and will forever
Still remain in this same way
Through my short life it has struck me
That Never seems a very long time
Though units of Never stacked toward Ever
Makes no foundation for a shrine
And I now know just what I did not
I have at last received the gist
For my distraction I resort to action
(Pardon me if I have missed)
I shall release this for now the time's come
--I'm done screwing with my fist
The solution by evolution
Is that existence does not exist
These are only the last and remembered lines of a poem more fully named "Four Angles of the Empty Set", which I was riled to write as result of my exposure to a college Existentialism class when I was 19. It appears in the chronology of my literary nonfiction work, "Monstrous: The Autobiography of a Serial Killer but for the Grace of God" immediately preceding the first murderous impulse I'm aware of having had.
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