We are made out of the things we lose, of those who are not with us any more even though they remain in us, a desire that goes on in the time beyond our senses, we are unwitting witnesses of the eternal traces of the death, domestic archaeologists, collectors of wrecks with which we can reconstruct a slight sign that we are still something.
Tell it to me with your eyes, be quiet, don't speak, don't be quiet, with your eyes. Without words that ruin everything. With your eyes. Back straight, legs parallel, butt out. I'm going to the wall, I punish the wall like you punish me with your shoe. You are not here and I know I'm going to miss you, back straight, legs parallel, butt out.