Grasp the air
With long nails,
Beat rhythmically into the woods,
Finger after finger,
To count time.

Crawl or fall the abyss,
Feel the bleeding of exhaustion
But continue, for the alternative
Is to surrender.

Nails makes us stronger,
Frighten others,
Keep us scaling.

Grab all you can
For the uncertain future.
Don't worry about the load,
About the order,
About the destiny.
It's all about
The dirt carried under your nails.

In each of my stories
The world was saved.
Saved by the fiction,
Saved by its magnificent characters,
Unstoppable, heroic, brave.

And all the world's illness
Was reduced to ancient history,
A bad memory floating,
A stain to conflict with a calm future.

But fiction
Is just an impossible reality,
Implausible connections leading
To a deceiving plot.

It is my will
To be the improbable hero
Materialized into words
That shall fail to produce images.

Fiction is an external change
To my internal demands,
Restrained by the boundaries of a page.

I saw him today,
All the way from Korea,
Gray hair, kind aspect,
Whose appearance would miss
The precision in his hands.

Once in a while
His foot would hit the floor
So loud the piano got smaller.
But he could not help it
(It was clear in his movements).

Rhythm took over,
He got possessed:
It was not him anymore.
The space between the keys would bend
So he would reach anywhere he needed.
A precise clock would tick perfectly, inaudible.
Air would cease to resist the speed of his movements.
Notes and tunes would now be an integer part of him,
Physiology would only happen to keep music alive,
He would be able to predict the future
As long as the song goes on.

At the end, tired (the piano),
A gentle gesture towards our culture
To make me feel once again:
Greatness and kindness are much better together.

Suspend this city
Above the earth that contains it,
See beneath,
See the underground,
See what's hidden in its tunnels,
Feel the breeze of a moist air
Trapped withing galleries.

Differ its layers:
Air, asphalt, gravel,
Subway, electric cables,
Piped gas, sewerage, ferrous oxide,
Magma.

Go deep to go properly.
The surface is not the story.
Atmosphere is just a limited point of view.
The movements happen on a tiny shell.
But there is more.
Thousands of kilometers,
Countless weight,
Unimaginable diversity of elements,
Unobserved, untouched, never thought.

Up and the vast infinity of nothing breaks us to dust,
East, west, north, south, and we remain where we were.
Down: what has left to be discovered.
Nautilus and Nemo knew it all along,
Overflowed from an ingenious mind,
So everyone could then be aware of it:
We got nowhere else to go,
And the problem is settled.
To dig is to reach painful grandness;
To stay is to sustain a comfortable sameness.

There are stories
Beyond any physics,
Unreachable by current logic,
And the sustaining intuition
Can no longer make sense
Of a world lacking reality
Or lacking separability.

Lines are only imagined
And imagination is now protagonist.
They now came true.
The ideal turned to reality
At the same time
We lost the capacity
To create the sublime:
Our dreams came true
And now we can't dream no more.

To be or not to be?
Where to be?
Why to be?
All of it matter,
But they are not required
To answer the most important question:
How to be?

We would be so naive
If we are satisfied
With descriptions,
Functions of time and space.
We answer what things are
Or we answer nothing,
And the world is still a huge meaningless mystery.

I am.
That is important,
But what I will be
Needs so much more.

I wish I was different
In a way I can't be sure
If I would still be me.

Then even colors would be different,
The path Earth follows
Would be slightly different,
The moon, either closer or farther,
But altered.

In essence,
Nothing would change:
Another person among billions,
Another ideas within an ocean,
Other undetectable interactions.

Still, incrementally different:
A different gravitational field,
Tenuous distortions in trajectories,
Touched by other winds,
Colliding with new molecules.
In thousands of years
The future would be so recognizable
I would say:
It all could only happen
For I wasn't me in the first place.

I changed so change could happen.

We either live in
A soft, warm, bubble
Or within hard, cold, walls.
The boundaries
Are our choice.

Even when they don't seem to.
It's the intention that changes everything.

Steam it,
Burn it,
Smoke it,
Push it,
Roll it,
Pressure it,
Vapor, vapor, vapor.

Go along the trails
Discover and claim
Hills, lakes, river, falls,
For the sake of movement.
Go, machine, go,
Force yourself through ****** valleys,
Be civil,
Be the pace of progress,
The heartbeat of evolution,
The clock within a factory,
The factory within thoughts,
Push, push,
Burn, burn,
Waste all you got,
Faster you burst, guided,
Guarded, armored, blinded,
Blind, deaf, deafening,
Enraging, plodding, sluggish,
Slip the steal against steel.
Against, again,
And what's to gain?
To go faster,
To be outpaced,
To be left behind,
To remain powerless at the station
Living through a painful goodbye,
To feel the installation of hollow,
To feel only the smell of a perfume now miles away,
To be pinched by steel to steel friction sparkles,
And that be enough to have a sense of self consciousness.

Things are coming, or going.
Any direction you choose:
Either closer or farther - that's what's happening.

Round, around, surround,
Rounded, surroundings,
Tangent, tangled, tango,
Dance, dense, tense,
Intense, interior, international,
Nation, notation, notion,
Purpose, purple rose,
Thyme, lime, time,
Evolve, involve, revolve,
Round, around, surround.

Again, gain, grain.
Rain.
Revolve.
Start. Smart.

Pointless, less.
Point.

Make.
Your.
Point.
Revolve, recycle.
To the origin.
Begin.
Up.
To.
The.
End.
And.
Over.

There is a certain kind
Of laziness, of apathy,
Which contaminates
Bones, muscles, tissues,
Rendering physics useless,
Psychology whines,
Neurology cries,
A vacuum installs
And curiosity fades,
Our countenance betrays
The deadly inertia carried
For reasons yet to be understand,
Held against what we are unaware,
And the very passage of time,
Countless seconds stinging
Where we sense the passing hours.

Maybe it's the death of a supermassive star,
Maybe just a lost bug carried by the wind,
Maybe there is no reasonable cause.
It all depends on what answer
You are trying to observe.