There is an effort to compress time. Every man is under pressure, ready to burst on something. Nothing will be revealed except morals and puss. Steam leaves a vessel inside an unknown room. Really, what is the use of a broomstick here, or of these night bulbs. Somewhere, an orphan cat is roaring. Going out of control scares me a little. Between me and Death, not much distance is left now. I am thinking about you as I comb my beard. The sun hasn’t shone since a week. All the roads are slowly disintegrating. There is always a problem that can kill a good sleep. If I open this window, is there anything to watch? The possibility of it alone can deliver a permanent shock to me. Impossible is not a limit. Some things exist beyond that, and I sometimes wonder what they might be. The idea is quite enticing. Walking down three flights of stairs could have been a holy act. But what if it is done everyday? What about simply opening a door? Or forgetting to wash your face or brush your teeth?
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