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.