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.