Its rhythmic charade ticking, ticking, ticking perturbs me a great deal
It is trying to force on me a sense of living within and not outside its boundaries, making me feel trapped
I shift my legs slightly and my shorts rise up clinging to the tops of my thighs in disordered precision
I throw the duvet back and observe, without seeing it the discourse of history in my blood
I hear it; feel its silent speech, its frantic rush, and its inner dialogue like a hidden undercurrent coursing through all my veins.
The inner space of speech, the redundence of images a sympathetic attunement to the dimensions of words that are the medium of my new translation.
A new complete language, now, for the first time accompanies my thoughts.