But what does this have to do with what I was thinking? Nothing,
which is why I let myself think it.
I have no hopes and no nostalgia.
They hover like bats over the soul’s passivity,
or like vampires that suck the blood of submission.
—Your gaze reminds me of music played on a boat in
the middle of a mysterious river with woods on the facing shore.
The contempt I have for the sufferings of others I also have for my own.
Don’t you know,
Exquisite One,
the pleasure of buying things you don’t
need? Don’t you know the delight of roads which
when we’re distracted,
we take by mistake? What human act has a colour as lovely as a spurious one.
Only then did I notice that there was
more in the street than the glowing street lamps
and where the lamplight didn’t reach there roiled a hazy moonlight,
veiled and speechless and full of nothing,
like life.
It weighs on me to know it will break,
as if I had to do something to make it happen.
To look at a sunset inside me or at a
sunset on the Outside is all the same to me
for I see them in the same way,
my eyesight registering the same thing in both cases.