I had been able to step over steep stairs which make my
history, simply assigning a broken map to others who can't believe.

our personal books last for a long time: saying it breathing them, a large
pile just stolen and I probably glanced at the dream of a synthetic city.

I was not sure I had noticed everything and just discovered an old person in the street - saw that the sick man had melted;
and I asked one of the men
who looked away: things sometimes simply vanish.
Don't walk were excuses witness the lot.
I could hear more about it.

Many years are made of simple seconds he said, sometimes you can see the truth in concrete. Images of the city speak their own language, controversial and crisp.

I was rummaging through my memories which were enclosed behind the locked door of a aging house. Random words vanished as soon as they appeared.

Imagine the feeling around/inside/across the end of a good word and I recapture last night's dream when I was deprived of all feelings, like a compression valve that seems blocked.

I had just finished, I thought, but I couldn't stop typing black letters into the night, words like flagpoles holding each and every possible message like a warning, arguments for careful changes lurking in small insignificant corners, wrapping the last years in large transparent office blocks, linear rules shaped like a figure emerging from a plan that has sat in a drawer for endless years.

Silent steel defines the new environment, in a corner another homeless man. We laughed and took more than we could swallow.

Another horizontal square endures its agony during the night.