There's no crowd in the streets and no sun

Idle days pass by between books, bedcovers and cherries. I watch shadowed curtains ripple, lulled to sleep by the unobtrusive sound of air condition. (I, not the curtains. They never sleep) There's much to do, most of it compulsory, but books are beginning to make sense. It's a relief, among all the spoken words that don't.

I now realize that I have only one piece of a puzzle so giant I walk on it and see it spanning everywhere. How can I expect of myself to make sense of things? It's impossible.Everything is interpretation. Clarity comes again a little too late for preserving an avɑ̃taʒ for long, but less so than before. I shall be able to create and hold on to worth soon. I know.

I also know that I am not this four letter word, I am another. In my head, every day. There's my piece.