a man has left the house this morning leaving the door ajar, the thief is still trying to get through the window.
the night has fallen but the city never sleeps, dreams or approaches the bed, in the streets I stumbled upon starving people. what is more wretched: becoming meat and walking there or becoming a seeded dream that never thrives in anyone’s head?
I know you are among them each seeking for that endless burrow so as to fall slumber soundly inside it
it is too arduous to be an exile. without a map everyone is searching an eloquent absence we are left confounded to give its name