To not go home in January, I will burn my new calendars, as if they were bridges. An exercise just for show? What do you think? But I’ve already taken the green silk bow off the weapon! (and I haven’t even said who the words are for).
I face the sea: an infinite sheet of glass (and the sky, sparkling, its reflection). The memory of ecstasy is not like ecstasy. The ashes are not less real than a footstep: they have to impregnate my clothes, they will leave a white smell of crime (and the possibility that, right in the middle of a static attack, they whistle Liability at you (your own elimination is at stake)).
It seems trivial, but it’s raining.