In a world full of wonders boredom was invented
I don’t know what I will do with the fondnesses that will come
every time you’re at the other end of the knife
I feel inside of me a sort of secular fatigue accrued in the genealogical tree
wealth of dark evenings that my forefathers
- likeable plebeians – spend near the hearth
I suffer the most of historical diseases
rivers of journeys for the stomach
invade me with astonishing interrogations
blindnesses of happiness in a many hours coma when I levitate on the spot
like an eagle without prey
I feel myself in a leeway and cover the sidewalks with turtle slowness
at the hour when the colours are grey and the adventure desire
dies stumbling on the night’s fall
I will let you see me by your own image
taking advantage of attributes and macerating
the logical order of my feelings
I will like myself in a daily that dies ripped
by the regularity of some “good day” and “good night”
the poem which I thought to say goodbye through remained in an inkpot
maybe that’s why I don’t do shopping for the whole week
I never know what I wish for the next day