Giving Up

How easy would it have been to blame the weather, the odour of my knitwear, the after-taste of nights that have only recently gone by. In a sudden, furious attack to all that has been stored, moments before the splendid moonlight. To lift my right index finger towrards a materiality that I have endorsed, to poke what will only be mine. How easy would it have benn to turn my ear away from the breath that haunts me, and has sustained me up to now, and fall pray -'hug!'- the meaningless cries of figures and numerals cubed.

Listening to the emphysima of my long nails at a stranger's wake, abruptly