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i
Nearly autumn. I walk among open umbrellas in the fish market. Something cries inside me. ii This train compartment is stuffed with smelling things: cheese and bread, plastic mats, beach sand. iii Looking in the distance I see my eyes reflections on the dark window. Floating, sinking. iv I am not curious. Questions break like cheap glass. Meanwhile I sit, feet under chair. v Not enough space here. What about time? What about the cuckoo clock ticking? It stopped. vi Everything hangs on. The same cafe still there in this small station. It feels good. vii A middle-aged woman spills coffee on her dress. Before leaving, She adds more lipstick. viii Today’s newspaper will cover all this mess wiping on linoleum the prints below the seats. ix Too tired for another day. The moment I open my eyes a black pigeon flies. x Walking in the park I realized that old men read the news under cherry buds. xi Oh! That minute when he bows in front of her smile, on the lake’s border. xii Every time I walk slow on melting ice I think my footprints grow too large. xii Driving fast on the motorway with the sun behind me, I feel like a stranger. xiv The traffic in my head grows in geometric progression. As long as I still remember. xv Graffiti signs in a dark passage, never deciphered, revealed on every summer solstice. Seasons change.
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