I empty myself of the names of others. I empty my pockets.
I empty my shoes and leave them beside the road.
At night I turn back the clocks;
I open the family album and look at myself as a boy.
What good does it do? The hours have done their job.
I say my own name. I say goodbye.
The words follow each other downwind.
I love my wife but send her away.
My parents rise out of their thrones
into the milky rooms of clouds. How can I sing?
You have to literally imagine Mark (or anyone) saying these two things one after the other, it’s extremely depressing once you grasp it. To accept the fact you are one day no longer going to be able to make a difference in this world is immensely horrifying. We all have to eventually say goodbye to ourselves, and at the same time accept the fact that that goodbye may never be heard by anybody.
The Remains