If you wish to write
On the subtlety of Zen:
One word. One page. Zen.
There is in my mortal memory a folder labeled “1955-1957”.
In it are sketchy mempix and a narrative of sorts
That is heard as my voice. A PowerPoint from hell.
I can’t erase this bleak and despairing folder.
Yet, no one else living in this day remembers,
So, the memories now are forgeries, really, little more.
The mempix and the narrative a fevered nightmare.
Little neurons zapping and rezapping, zap after zap.