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when the rent for my life gets unbearably high and I own nothing of enough value to distract me for a few years from the edge of her sharp Scythe I will free my body from this shell shaking the ground with the memory of my human shape: my legs will move my gaze will have no anchor like the tourist forced to see what must be seen I will be a traveler wind at first uncontrolled I will be a traveler who wakes from a brief dream shakes off the invisible garments of the earth that cover him happy joyful and free.

and we are still here...

There is no refuge for the desolate for he drags deserts behind him and the drought of love: there is no spell to divine new planets create new systems throw the desolate into the prison-shadow of infinity. We are men circular men men of mythological flesh without powers superpowers or the promise of enchantment. What peace does this man of blank page seek? What rescue lies in the discontented beat of my shadow? My shadow, the dull outline of my feelings: The exiled Renaissance. For today man looks inward when in a shop window he meets the electric eye of a camera and again on screens greets himself like in a mirror: the man looks at himself and is a man of photons. Unstable, of particles, of trajectory. Without awareness. There is no refuge for the desolate and his desert of drained love.

Mis últimas palabras. Anoche mi cuerpo se sacudió eléctrico y estocado por el infierno: pero si no es nada con dos pastillas cada 12 horas te mejoras en 10 días. ¿Y la tristeza? ¿En qué la sumerjo? ¿En anís y whisky? ¿En oraciones? ¿En comprar lo que no puedo? Como el tibio cercano amor que respira sobre mi cuello: Temblé como ciudad en ruinas y ella fue sobreviviente: me quedó mirando hasta que caí dormido.

Es tiempo de mirarse al espejo.

Woman. I love you.

listen...

We will always be Your eyes.