I,
however,
am the sort of person who is always on the fringe of what he belongs to,
seeing not only the multitude he’s a
part of but also the wide-open spaces around it.
I don’t know where it will take me,
because I don’t know anything.
The grey hours get longer,
flattening out in time; the moments drag.
And he escapes it more easily than I.
I overowed from myself to end up I don’t know where,
and that’s where I’ve uselessly stagnated.
If life is the wilful expression of emotion,
art is the intellectual expression of that same emotion.
No breeze,
no person interrupts what I’m not thinking.