Sometimes it's a weird arrangement,
And I think it's all going to be fine,
And I think it's not going to be fine.
But I know it'll be what will be
For we created every chances,
Within every choice.

I know there's a special connection
But what does that stands for
In such different spaces we occupy,
Such different futures ahead,
Such different goals?
We're left with a warmth goodbye
And exhilarating memories.
We have more in our pasts
Than in what's to come.
Probably.
And that's ok.

We'll still have a connection.
We'll still have contact. Probably.
We'll have written part of each other stories
And that's enough.

Our freedoms have outspoken
Plans and flesh and comfort.
But the first aim
Is to seek happiness.
At times, that meant together.
Now it means something else
I'm still trying to figure out.

To be better, always.
That's what I wish for both of us.

Red lights around,
Low movement,
The hot air
Just above the ground,
Freezing cold above it,
And the foggy view,
Precising my coordinates:
São Paulo,
The instant karma
Or no karma at all.

The eternal rumble
Humming like Mutants sounds
Confuses my nostalgia
(What is it that I'm hearing?),
And the more I stay,
More roots turn to branches,
More passing faces seem familiar,
And your songs make deep sad sense,
Losing the sadness, losing senses again,
Never ever the same.

A city,
Just a city,
That wouldn't meet
Self esteem if it was not
For the brizzle.

You resemble anywhere
As long as one sees
Signs and the streets' names,
For no one resemble you,
But, yet, all is contained.
The right and the wrong,
The worth, the width,
The asphalt and the airplanes,
The loneliness, the crowds,
The invisibles
And the acquainted that never crossed by,
All circumscribed within the limits
Of your endless boundaries.

I am no more
than the sum of matter,
mildly organized thoughts
and an ambiguous willing
to contrast and to blend.

I spire down only to find
that what I've been running from
is growing in front of me.

Is the run my true fuel,
is the endless search my Stockholm jailer?

The more I cope,
the more I run,
the more I fight.

There is nothing new inside of me,
just an absurd,
an eternal stone lifter
who keeps running from faith
faster and faster.

I have no such long memory
to tell if it is a circle,
a straight line,
or just a random circuit.

All I have to do
is keep running.

What's left for the guilty
Besides a life long self awareness
Of a lesson that costs more
Than what is leaned?

Maybe it's not the balance
Or piece of mind
That matters,
Maybe it's us, just us,
Our strength
To survive
A lonely guilty journey,
A new type of immortality,
The perpetual absurd
Flaming from what it produces:
A lack of force that ultimately produces
The strongest one.

How many of me
Are the ones who live inside me?
What fulfills me is myself
Or just
The reflex of the reflex of the reflex
Of what I see?

Of the world I belong
What form contains my form?
What lazy wills
Assemble the pieces that move me?

I am the dust of the moments
That time insists to maintain,
A skin with no touch
Of the happenings
To surround every boredom and passion.

I am the greatness of the void
And the megalomaniac smallness
Of an expanding universe.
My universe.

I am the content of the last drop
That overflows the jar
Into verses that could not fit me.
And, in every verse,
The worlds of what I should be made of
Replicate themselves indefinitely,
Revealing fleeting opportunities
That only a mindful existence captures.

There is what I do not see,
Or reflexes would have life on their own;
I feel what is not,
Or feeling would be concrete.

I am the filter that sort out
The possible from the impossible
And, thus, to dignify me
I made of lonely verses
Infinite universes
For the impossible choice
Of being in me.

Words cross me as a knife
In a certain kind of retaliation.
Right or wrong doesn't matter,
It only matters what people say.

I must remember
That words are not sharp
- We hear them sharp.
We let them cut,
We let them in our heads,
We let them overflow in tears,
Sometimes ours, sometimes in others' eyes.

But I carry the weight
Of bleeding someone else's heart,
And agonize myself as a morbid
And undesired consequence.

The dry blood begins the healing at some point,
Or turns to hemorrhage.
We shall take care,
Soften words,
Soften what goes out in the light,
Even though some cuts are inevitable.

Why the language
Not my own,
Not from my land,
Not in my garden,
A cold, simple language?

It is my boundaries
And also my tools,
A mixture of leverage and numbing.

It's a strange stranger language,
Unnatural to me as a third eye
Yet, still, it improved my sight,
Enhanced me,
Enlarged me,
Ridicularized me,
For the sake of my pride,
At the cost of my sleeping hours,
A joke waiting to happen,
A trap I've built
And which I'll fall.

The deepness
Avoids the surface to break up,
Just as time helps deepness
To keep existing.

For matter to be
It must be supported
By all that cannot be.

It is not important
How big a thing is:
its surroundings will always
be bigger.

To exist is small,
An irrelevant exception
To the greatness of
The infinite of openness.
But exceptions matter:
Bubbles are an insignificant,
Magically beautiful,
Exception of the vast air.
Ephemeral due to its
Lack of deepness,
Amazing for its frailty:
A perfect metaphor to life itself.

As I sit here writing
my heart beats like a hammer,
squeezing bitterly blood
to  trembling hands
busy writing words they can't understand,
guided by a brain that barely thinks now,
contained with anger and rage,
with eyes that only see red,
ears that only hear screams,
nose that smell iron and steel,
and a rough feeling in my skin,
everything flows devastating the surroundings
(but flows nevertheless),
I feel it in my toes, in my nails,
in the hair over my head,
my stomach starts digesting itself,
my gut warns me "something ain't right",
my muscles, now I remember they're somewhere,
they tighten up,
ready to fight,
read to fly.
I grow, I defy,
I occupy the space around me,
I resist,
I hurt me, I hurt others,
I scream, I lose my voice,
I write and I silence.

Then everything stops, and, suddenly,
the rapids flow into the lake.

To be an artist
Is to drain oneself out,
To overflow life and moments and thoughts
To blow away its content
Like a balloon
Refusing to explode.

The desire for greatness
Is what keeps me
From doing things.

I am so worried
To be great,
To deploy perfection,
That it hurts to engage projects,
To produce,
To create.

It paralyzes me
And nothing is done.

Never to be badly spoken,
Never to be praised.
Forgetfulness or a change
are the only destinies.

The harshest moment
Was when I found myself alone.
It wasn't scary because of solitude,
Or because I wanted anyone else beside me:
I recognized that feeling latent in every other moment,
With good and bad companies,
In pleasant or sad times.

The only company is loneliness
Which is just another name
For our own name.
Now I am not scared of it anymore:
I only saw the ugliness in its face
Because it is how it was always painted
When, in fact, it was just a mirror.

We were taught
To be afraid of ourselves:
That's the only possible reason
Loneliness is so fearing.

I wish I could be
So wise and sharp
My truths were spread.

Would they be more truthful?
Every mindset makes sense
Based on its set of premises.
Would they be any truthful, in fact?

In face of a shapeless modernity
What are we but carriers of self truths
Never to be integrally shared,
Never to echo freely?

We are bearers of our inner worlds
And nothing more,
With a somewhat amplified voice
Equally toned, merging, absorbing every intensity
Until it remains just an indistinguishable grunt.

To be sharp
Is to distune from the crowds,
To make yourself heard
Even if the most difficult part
Is to identify
Which sound is our own.

Every time my city comes to me
I find it hard to seek my buried treasures.
They still exist, but layers and layers
Of novelties, of sediments, of landscaping
Make them miss my eyes.

Every time my city comes to me
I am in a different shape, but recognizable,
Old stories cross by, new futures become possible,
Life goes on, but never again in the same way.

Whenever my city arrives with its lights on,
Inviting eyesight and welcoming reflections,
I know I am grateful for every footprint
carved on some fresh cement on the sidewalks,
For every friend met in the way,
For the bonding loneliness,
For the distracting crowd,
For the provincial beliefs (to be conflicted).

Every time my city comes to me
I know and I don't know
The good things and the bad things,
That happened here, all at once.

The world expands irreversibly
With every new event
Thus, the only way feasible
Is into the unbounded
possibilities of the future.

There once was a lake
Where it is now a cracked soil.
I pumped everything I could
Now nothing is left.

I hope for the rain
For I am too weak to seek water.
I hope to keep living
Despite the living conditions.

I choose to be in São Paulo
As someone who chooses to be born,
As if choice was inhabited
By the fragments of what wasn't chosen.

I choose this impossible arrangement
Of someone who is but does not want to,
Or who wants to be, but is not.
Of living here plainly
Without tearing,
Of a possibility to live here,
Without the sacrifice of living here,
Of a routine forged for chaos,
To shatter yourself to be a whole
Of 20 million stories.
Of this forever transit
To settle somewhere.

I let water almost boil
For the coffee that is more than coffee:
It's the content of your rhythm, your flavor
Bitter, despite the sugar,
It's your story and your present
(in heavy homeopathic doses).
More is told in coffees than in books.

If tomorrow the world contains you no more,
Everything will go on.
Except the choice of what I wanted:
I want you, even though it's a wanting of not wanting.

My poems are about me,
About the world I created,
About the world that ceases because of me,
About the poverty of my belongings
And the richness of expectations.

That's why I write:
To put the blanks between the bricks,
To keep the sky at sight
Despite every ceiling,
To make of the bitter taste of despair
A pleasant journey.

Poetry is the slow death
Through immortality,
To unattach from life,
Making me less alive,
But eternal.

I love from dying bit by bit
For it is the closest to me I'll ever be,
The maximum to get from life;
The world is a world of ends,
Our wills reminds us of that,
As the sun or the constant now.

Poetry is to exercise the intensity through calm,
The transformation through the steady,
The moment through time,
To vanish every weight through the supreme weight.

Poetry is the victory
Of ink over men,
Of the possible over the real.

The madness that doesn't grow
Does not fully consume me,
That keeps alive the useless sanity.

The madness that exhibits the unreal,
Making everything else real.

The madness of being what I never wanted,
or wanting what I never was.

This madness,
Crazy by lucidity,
Wize for losing itself
In the meanders of all possibilities.

I am crazy for all inexplicable bets,
Crazy to take by uncertain
All that my existence proves.
Crazy to wake up every day
Waiting for the hour to sleep to wake up.

Crazy, yet alive;
Alive, yet healthy;
Whole, complete,
Occupying the spaces
With my empty mind,
In the infinite
Of my tiny madness.

Anxiety is the absence of present,
Is the thoughts forgetting the body
Is the victory of the boredom, of the things that may never be
Is the waiting in boarding room for a delayed flight (a real flight?)

It is the interrupted breath,
Missing the air, although sick of air,
To be drown in tricky small chances, holding up to impossibilities

The fear of incapacity,
Rejoice in our own setbacks,
The silent scream, aborted, buried in guilt, remorse and curses
To doubt yourself for no reason at all,
To live miserably and scare death itself with pain

Walk without ever reaching a corner.
To look for a bar and to not have a bar, or
To look for a bar, finding a bar and to not want a bar.

To **** and to account at the same time,
Close the eyes and see monsters,
Open the eyes and see monsters,
Attack the monsters with other stronger monsters
(who stop, smell your fear and end up turning against you),
To know that all monsters are yours,
Fed and incited by you like dogs in a junkyard
(at some point you stop to see your own body bitten to the bones by them)

It is to quench your thirst with poison,
Build up walls around yourself to protect from your own assaults.

Anxiety, my friend, is the rise of non-sense, of the unreal.
Past and future does not coexist with present.
Just wake up.
WAKE UP, little fool.

You've just missed
the starting gun,
and you missed again.

It is not the noise that escaped you,
it is not the muscles that failed,
it is not your brain who mislead.

Feel the track, the traction,
feel the wind slowly growing with speed,
listen your own, intense, heartbeats.
Feel your empty lungs, tired.

Fatigue, pain,
all you will feel.
Compete: lose and win.
Believe the race,
believe the run,
and they exist.

Every attempt to reach an answer
Is wrong fundamentally:
The premise that there is an answer.

Truth is only found
Where it cannot be sought;
Every rationalization is a lie
That, nevertheless, makes sense
If we believe in it.

Pure truth is overrated
For it is real
And real we cannot conceive.

Let me accumulate doubts
Stepping carefully in swamps
(Please, don't bother the smell,
You may not be used to it).

I run from maps and fences,
The lenses of superb.
Believing any truth
Is less sure
Than fortresses in clouds.

All is there to do
Is to change;
To remain is to sink.
At the best case scenario,
A free fall to the uncertain ground.

Everything we see
Is a corruption of the sun.
The inadvertently diffuse trajectories of light
Reflected on a recognizable world.

Standing near the sea
Where horizon is plain and outlying,
Is as distant of a mirror we can be,
Where we can realize the negation of oneself.
That steady line hiding all storms
Is a reference for no reference,
The endless end.

To think occupies the place
Once belonged to sense.
We see, hear, touch,
But whenever thinking takes place,
We become blind, deaf, hypoesthesic.
To understand is to shut and close the world,
But all start with sensing.

Yet, we are so small
That everything we see
Are mere obstacles
To everything behind.

The engine runs
Powerful, smooth, reliable,
But misdirected:
Pushing everything towards the cliff.

There's only enough space
For a courageous maneuver
Out of the bridge
Out of the road
Into the uncertainties
Of the sideways.

Every delay
Is hope turning into risk
A maneuver getting harder to perform,
A latent accident emerging
Due to the fear of decision.

Deadlines urge us into action,
No excuses, no overthinking.

I knew what it was about,
I agreed and I wanted.
Turns out, things were different.
Now I want to explore further,
I want life to be more,
I want it to be transit,
I want melt things into fluidity,
I want to be unleashed,
I want be part of someone else's envy
(What does that say about me?).

I expected nothing
And yet, now I can't
Be where I was,
Contained.

It's not expectation that frustrates.
It is the void after a great experience.

Poem yourself
For nothing expects nothing from you.
You can only be
Rhyme, rhythm and content.
Everything else
Is superflouous.

Walking with tight shoes
One meter sight ahead,
Trembling, feet by feet on a wonky land.

My bones cold,
My fear well fed
By imaginary hands,
And food nevertheless real:
The end of the alley, cornered.

One year, one month,
Silly calculations of an inexact variable,
My head up and down
Of every thought,
Short lenses,
Missing landscapes,
Loud chaotic songs,
Distracting every bit of me
In bits, bytes, pixels and inches
Of an infinite and small creation.

In your eyes I see mine,
I see yours blue and mine brown,
But I know they do the same thing,
I know their composition,
But I'll never know their content.

Whenever difference is imposed
A new border rise,
You and me,
Us and them,
Worthy and disposable.
One's land gets smaller and smaller
With every foot of fence added:
To have a land is be lonely,
To be smaller than everybody else
Despite any comfort.

Our skin that protects us
Is the same keeping us from teaching infiniteness.

He who has not,
Even for a minute,
Pondered whether its own life
Should continue or not
Still misses the value of being alive.

Diseases, falls, shots,
None of them kills;
We die for unasked questions,
We die for self ignorance,
Little by little,
Until we are replaced by amnesia.

To breathe is a daily choice
Whether we question it or not.
What we take for granted
Decides how to live,
Where to cross a street,
When to quit a job,
To fight or to freeze,
To jump, to act,
To turn to a monk
And set yourself on fire
Or to ramble on
On commutes, highways,
Air bridges and cruises.

We miss the important questions
For the fear that we won't survive
Their answers.
But questions are not about answers:
They are most certainly delusional.
Questions are about
Discovering the value,
Choosing the weights,
Iterate balance,
Reduce propagated errors.

Life is more appreciated
At the verge
Of our perceptions of reality.

Prologue:
I Am:
A permanent state of being

I am:
A transitory state of being.

The poem:
I Am nothing
For every cell
Is dying, being born,
Getting old, getting replaced,
Everything is changing;
I am well,
I am fine,
I am worried,
But this are minor am's.
For I Am nothing.

I once heard a story
That a man, alone,
Built his empire,
Dealt with all his ****,
Fought armies single handed.

He would follow his plans,
Be appreciated for his good work,
Defy all injustices,
Defeat his own corruption.

Of course it is a story,
Not because of all the accomplishments,
Or the act of bravery,
Open chest against the world.

What makes it unbelievable
Is remaining steady throughout it all.
To build oneself
Is to change oneself.

Pour a bit of ethic in you.
Pour ethic in you.
Pour ethic.
Poetic.

I've seen the sunset today
So I could say:
Set myself into complete ignorance,
Into the grandness of irrelevance,
Of an irreverent existence,
Just to be, once again,
A shadow, never contained by light,
Diminished by sunbeams,
Uncontained within my own forms,
Informed by anything surrounding,
Nonconformist by the rule,
A follower by design,
Bounded by a thin membrane
Half permissive to toxicity and medicine,
Filtering dreams and passions and connections
And that same red light of the sunset,
That one profusely shining million color tones in the sky,
That one that reminds me every day I forgot to seek it,
That one majestically telling me the distant limits of the world,
Pushing night no matter what.

Set me up, for night is a friend.
Set me down, make me sleep while you're awake,
Set me into a wheelchair, down a ladder,
Uncontrolled, but just for fun,
Set me with a straitjacket,
Set me with anger, **** my innocence,
Set the controls at the highest volume,
Explode my eardrums and whisper spells of happiness,
Let darkness prevail
For the most beautiful feelings
Require fertile soil to flourish.

I am in need of a routine,
A habit to keep me disciplined,
To maintain my goals on track,
To make my joy productive,
To put into the world
Everything I think
I can do to make it good.

Relentlessly I fight
This urge to reach greatness,
I feed the monster father of procrastination
Delaying laurels and rejection
For an inexplicable fear.

I need a routine
To allow me mediocrity,
And the immediate consequence of evolution.

I need to act,
More and more,
Frequently,
Carelessly,
Intentionally.

Act is the inevitable movement
That accompanies the one-way arrow of time.

I often feel bored,
Companies are not satisfying,
Plans are not fulfilled or fulfilling,
Work is meaningless.

I feel bored
And I don't know why,
Changes seem blasé,
News are outdated.

I feel bored,
Maybe it's just
My optimism that everything will be
What it might be.

I shut my songs,
Never heard them,
Never played them,
But I insist telling me
They don't exist,
Just as the electricity
Remained hidden for thousands of years:
They are there, somewhere,
In eminence to pop,
To breathe,
To see the daylight.

I neglect them
But I can feel the beat,
I don't know who I'm waiting for,
Which colors they'll be born,
Echoing which tunes,
Heavy or light,
Until I'm able to
See, feel, touch and heal.

The songs are messy,
Brewed as they could,
Unborn, but alive,
Strange, but weirdly harmonic.
Consonant.

Every house
Has another house within.
In the smells, the roughness of the walls,
In the little cracks
That barely are seen.

The voices remain there,
The dreams remain there,
Our gentle touches remain there.

It is also in the furniture.
The same house with different furniture
Is another house, with another house.
The tables lose their colors,
And is still a table,
A chair changes until no chair endures:
It is a tree once again,
In a forest of other chairs
And doors, and wardrobes.

We cannot sit anymore,
We cannot rest,
Neither be there:
It's somebody else's house.

But between the cracks
The air blows
A distinct sound
Of every spoken words
In this house
Of fathers, mothers,
Sons, workers, masons.

Bricks are just bricks.

What can I do
Against myself?
I want different things
And how to choose
Between a regret now
And a regret in the future?

To have a choice
Is to distinguish,
To have appearances revealed,
To create position and assertion,
Is to judge and differentiate.

Choice comes from
Our miserly characters,
The aim for individuality
In a discriminatory way.

Choices are all but rational,
And in all of them lie
A contradiction within,
Born in our own will
To justify, and all fall apart.

In universe and nature
Holds no choice.
It is as human as bombs,
Computers, medicine:
Never good, never bad,
Just things that at a moment
Start to exist.

Even though choices are never material,
They're still real

Half ways are not halfs,
They're two thirds or more,
The midpoint does not account
For the prior doubts,
The self empowerment,
The fights against our louder inner judging voices.
They're midpoints,
But most of the world
Is hidden from space,
Things are in all 37 dimensions.

Half ways is just a reminder
That though most of the work is done,
It's the last half that lead to an end.

I do not know the colors I cannot see,
and the frequencies I do not listen.

I do not know the ideas that does not serve as mirrors,
and the images that are not my own.

The moon remains remote without my footprint.

Everything I know, I own;
What I do not know is not mine, does not fit me

I fear the unknown because I fear what I am not:
I fear my poverty because poor I never was
I fear death because dead I have never been
I feared light before seen it for the first time

But the unknown is bricks and frames of my creation;
I only learn from things that are obscure to me.

I can only truly learn what I fear.

What if all my code lines
Those guiding my breakfast and my lust,
Turn out to be just a dumb shot
Of my own arbitrairities?

I would never be able to tell
If I'm right or
If I just think I'm right.

Paradoxically I only know I'm right
Whenever right I am.
It's not about being sure.
It's about the power and ability
To let yourself be sure

Convicted murderer locked in his cell
Watched by guards, news and defenders of morality.

They say about the case: "Thirty years? Too few!"
They say about the judge: "He's a *****!"
They say about the policeman: "He should have killed him!"
They say about the prisoner: "Human? No, he  ain't!"
They say about the dead: "He's a saint!"

We sleep peacefully seeing the beast jailed,
the criminal act contained,
as a reward for the things we were deprived:
The murders we did not commit (but wanted),
The aggressions suppressed (but wanted),
The lack of character we did not manifest (but, hell, we wanted!),
The sick look in the mirror we learned to mask.

Killing is not just pulling the trigger.
It is about the indifference,
about all the fingers pointing out failures,
about the accumulated pain of every struggle,
about greedy desires fueled by what we see daily,
about the lack of power, from cradle to coffin,
about the eyes we meet everyday but cannot see.

What is worth a fair sentence
over an ever unfair life?
What dose of love will fall
in the remains of a life built in such lack of compassion?
Why do we keep on returning to eyes and teeth
while Hammurabi remains buried for tens of centuries?

We do not fear the murderer,
we fear our own rage, our frailty and lack of control.
We proudly watch the misery of the prisoner
for we renounced the free animal
for the imprisoned human.

Every fight
Shall be forgotten
Even by those who fought them.
If not the battles,
At least their reasons.

So much has been conquered,
So much left to be.
Every step back
Will be a leverage
For a stronger step forward.

I shall lose my whys,
I shall diminish the need
For further fights,
But I hope at least
To keep believing
In a brighter future
Always to come.

Through fissures of the world
We build our knowledge,
Through fissures between us and others
We construct relationships.

Through fissures in time
We try (effortless) to predict future,
Understand past,
Control present,
But it's all fissures.

All but little cracks,
Percentages of reality,
Small parts of the world
That we are able to capture.

We cannot live life in completeness.
We are built through our fissures.

Wreckages are not despair,
They are the end of a storm.
They are a chance to decide
What's worth and what's not.

Wreckages are the art
Of the nature, of an implosion,
Of a disaster,
And the opposite of the disaster:
They are the calm,
The corrosive mold now exposed.

Wreckages are the place we climb
To see the extension of the destruction,
They make, out of tears, sweat.

Wreckages exposes us to the world,
For our caves are no longer there,
There is no room for a reform,
And eyes once again meet eyes,
We feel the raw earth within our toes,
Time fractures, and suddenly,
We're animals just like ages ago,
Vulnerable,
Without past,
Without future.

The wreckages
Are raw material of the healing.

I rise into the world of being,
Born, bleeding, crying, seeing.
By any chance
Birth made me happen,
Curiously curious,
Helplessly questioning, wandering,
Somewhat philosopher,
Somewhat physicist,
Somewhat lost trying to create new labels.

I was born
To be in the world,
To deal with questions without answers,
To find my own sense.

I am here for no reason, though.
I am here to be here.
To see it through,
To live it through.

To question is just
A way of being here.

It is not expected of men
Any sense of logic
Or any reason.

Maybe we're emotional,
Maybe political,
Maybe ludic,
Maybe Luddite,
Maybe lunatic.

We're attracted to frames,
To guardrails,
Afraid of the ocean,
Afraid of thirst
And of drowning,
Admirers and avoiders of boldness,
Cowardly seeking courage
But hiding when faced
It's raging face.

Maybe it's just me
But, hey, I'm one of you
(At least I put effort into it).

Each of those I see
Is my own extent,
Part of what I am,
And I am part of them
That are part of me.

You look at me as a misplaced past,
The deformed evolution of the perfect
(Or it is only a mirror?)
But I am now a better me,
With a load of sensitivity,
A trigger to a bullet without powder:
The click may tremble your bones
But my sharp edge remains still inside.
What you hear from me
Is what refuses it's own death.

No matter what I'll keep breathing,
For a thousand years
Or beneath the ocean,
I'll still pulse
Out of sight,
Without any shadow,
Bounded by no walls.

I can feel now
The pressure of my fingers in this pen.
It's the same pressure
To vibrate the air,
To load anyone's shoulders,
To explode lips with heavy words,
To keep continents still.

I bear no truth
For my own body is exactly what I can carry.
That's enough for me.
I just train my eyes
To see colors that aren't mine.

It's not the light,
But the almost absence of it,
It's the improbable reflections,
The unconventional light paths,
It's the dance of imagination and odds.

The formless images
Clearer and more defined
In the measure they're abstract,
A curve and a straight line
Brought me the hammer and sickle
(What does that tell about me?),
And don't know for what reason
The other form brought me a dog.

What I see on the ceiling
Is the light of my open eyes,
My bleeding heart,
My calculist mind,
My fading memories,
All projected in a jelly
Of colors, messy patterns,
Of texture and ideas,
So maybe, through that,
I can see miles
Inside my own tiny body.