the word for it is compass. what you lack. the direction,the wanting of anything but a hiding place.

desidia, le dije a ella, la de la amplia sonrisa. she who loves to take in strays.
dysania, i wrote. she said it sounds like depression.(how i hate that word. i preffer dandelion, dissension, decay, diminish, desire, dissonance, disquiet. and slur)

and i said to her, aún no. no mientras haya tiempo.

it's like seeing the shape of your life extended before you like a red carpet
(very poetic, he said to me. but what will you do?) (and this always happens when you try to explain)
so you fear.

you are getting old, i said to the mirror. old cold. and panic seized me by the throat.

all matter is decaying, i said. as you breathe, you breathe in death

ne pleure pas.

(and edna says i am not resigned. and i do not approve. and shakes her head with pursed lips)

so the future is looking rather grim, and i know not what to write.
everything will end. stars will die, have died already so long ago. not a single star will be left in the night. incluso la noche no quedará

the dream of perpetual motion

for me there's only poetry. not even dreams. just the longing.
and poetry books are so expensive. and i am a bad poet. and i am also broken of the pocket, crippled in the purse, rossz csillag alatt szuletett, igen igen