A QUARTER TO THREE: THE IDEAL
A quarter to three: we need to be even thinner, even that which caresses the nose somewhere stinks, into words. Knocking for bread is clear, chew death is clear, the fog returns, and withdraws the breath is clear. The slow water, roaring through the crack in the asphalt road, is deadly nonsense, it’s world away, strangely clear. The traveler is on the road, the distance is nowhere, is everywhere imaginable. He takes a few steps, no word, he can not pass. He, calm.