How Enter

June 26th, 2011

Under the rotten bridge. On the warm rocks. Near the murmur of the tiny water waves.
But haven’t you already wrote that? Have you got no other place to go? You must have. And definitely so. But only the words may repeat, maybe the place repeats itself with the bridge, the rock, the water? How foolish then!
Unless the outplace. Reshifting, here – on the bench, near murmur of the street, by an old church. And the words start dangerous uncertain route of dissimulating the place. And one feels no more the proximity of the bridge, no gentleness of the rock. One must wander then. As long as the outplace keeps on moving – not so out, not quite in.
Through the stones of the mad city.

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