that fragile keystone of my little cosmos,
a cap-stone casing my disparity.
My death will make it fall from heaven,
and all and everything asunder.
What once seemed one,
now whirling into empty space,
not even leaving traces of what was.
Or am I here committing Berkeley’s blunder,
illusions taken as a road map for reality.
But what then is the ‘I’,
if not a willful print of future after future,
with suddenly – against its will – and end.
Sierksma January ‘17