I leave this work untitled
Like every book on the wall
Like the wall, I hold these works on me
No names, no faces
I look into the mirror
I see no face, no name, no title
Just a book, an unfinished piece of work
No work on this wall is complete
And thus, deserves no name
The untitled works, the poems and novellas
The epics, the short stories, the sagas and chronicles
All unfinished, all untitled

It’s hard to find a piece of writing
When the covers are all the same
All white, all blank, nameless
If I set fire to this room
It would be like nothing had been destroyed at all
They sit on their wall; waiting
I lay on my bed; waiting
Waiting
We are waiting