(I used to go at dusk through narrow streets, but now i can barely muster the strength to get up and place one foot before the other)

the year, le année sans lumiere est fini. and another one follows it, dark as morphine sleep

the darkness that dwells behind your eyes, so full of dead ends and silences. a desert, staring back

the passage of time is a trick, the rasp of your lungs tells you. time is full of loose ends and one is wrapped up around you like a boa, repeating the days; months and months slipping as sand through your fingers

(pain looks great on other people, i heard andrew say)

my various failures. in-between feeling, half in the water (thoughts dipping and swelling but never cresting) and not close enough to myself, like a botched lobotomy

(piedad, quien tendrá piedad de nosotros)

i feel as though I am on the verge of understanding something. that soon it will steal up to me, like a wild animal in a field, if only i sit here quietly enough

(the best of all possible worlds will open up to you)

a wind from the sea, yes

and you wont ever have to look back