Into the looking glass went your eyes.
And there you were again.
Like the worm in your pocket after you stomped the Jerusalem beetle.
You rise and you rise and you rise.
And we know not what for.
Look for it on the trail.
In the stars at dawn.
Where is your reason for rising?
Why the circles round the sun, the twists on the axis?
Why the daze?
Why the days? Why must every second count?