In the line, in the illusion between sleep and wakefulness, I still half-see stories (hidden-talk) that intertwine with others, my own or others', previous and future. From cigarette to cigarette, they move arbitrarily in the back quarries of the mind as regular patrons, or convicts who separate, get lost, and return the same and different. Old dogs that roamed in memory and bark after death. Like taking two or three pieces from a sheep, or like the notoriety of a kiss. Fall-rise, everything changes again, so I hold connections and threads, intertwining them with new, floating images and buried events that constantly change through processing and invention, creating fluid carpets-litanies thrown into the water. The wolf of words is reborn and these broken narratives become depots, windows for the tomorrow that I will lack phosphorus.
Although everything, ultimately, is organized in the area of the incomprehensible.