I can't help it, the sun is sinking in the west. Was the Big Bang just a generational error? A girl of disastrous proportions? Today I lie down with her.  I'm tired of trying to figure out what makes me pretty and smart. A plum has fallen from the roof of a building trying to fall asleep in its rectangular shadow. It only knows how to fall and lie there. Two deodorants, actually three, in my old plastic bag.as I look at him as he finally felt he could afford to think about death. A night without air reserves or with his meager flows carefully circling me, because after all, if one of them accidentally saved me from suffocation, the burglar alarm would wake up all my friends across the four hundred poles of this stupid globe. I wake up with a stomach ache like I'm on my period and with a vague concept of the nature and actions of dead pigeons: they're expressive but they're not allowed to have sex, even though they're made for love. They can literally crawl anywhere. What a trick. In the morning I stand on the balcony and imagine who is better an greater than me. Tell me, how did you really ask about me? Is today some kind of special day? Unmixed sugar, prehistoric leaves, rounded memories of some kind, lights pleasant to me and less pleasant to me. Nothing left. Not even the stranger who now lives in my old room where, stuck with gum arabic, pot bellied birds protected me from drafts and parasites. Sometimes I wonder if they remember me. A table came to me with four stools a fish swam in spat everywhere. I don't know if I'm still interested in my love. Not if I still have love, or if we'll simply remain normal, usual blue. I had so much of myself then. I hold my dreams just on the edge. I wake up without consolation. While I sleeppp, the earth enters my wound. And where am I going, getting up like this and walking in this body of mine? Whether I'm the love of your life, or whether life has lied to you. I don't even care and anyone who needs consolation should take a "so what?", as in the example: is it bad to cling to the dead? So what. Shifting positions seven times in my sleep. I finally told you how I was dressed the other day and you asked me if I could count without fingers. But I count so slowly that now you don't know which version of me you love. So what. There's no need to know. I installed a light in my room. Let me. Let me. This is my center and after all. I have something in there. What is it? I don't know. I'm almost imprisoned, I'm imprisoned, I'm unsaved, I'm locked up. The baby is sleeping, I forgot, I forgot you're all sleeping. I forgot the ladybug. I put a miniskirt in my pocket and my lipstick back on what was left. Me, a beautiful piece of work. I wash my hand which are no longer as smooth as they once were. The ladybug monitors my dreams. My dreams room. And my corner window. And some balcony with kitsch decorations. These are the dreams in which the birds sing as if I weren't there. Me, an ineffable, touchable girl. Me, a woman collapsed like a house of cards, and what's more, the next day the house got back up and started jumping on her. This is precisely what I mustn't ask for. I made room for the lack of sound in my life, I pulled back the duvet, the shirt, the skirt, the lipstick, I unlocked the cage of my ribs. I wouldn't have had room for any of you if I hadn't made room for myself. I crack open a walnut and find my reward, my confirmation. A black tulle flower on the ballerina bodice, a leaf. I'm just walking forward. Something I'll never forget, something I can't remember. April, spring, belly, desirable Sunday. "I didn't touch you," he said