Why should I go further in this erroneous dream? The people are blurry, the sea is unchained, I find nothing real. Neither that which is striking, nor that which troubles in this aimless mixture where even violence has gone soft. The hard water no longer rips up the dust and truth hides, hides to die as an arbitrary shape in all the glasses of the world, all the seas. The day is running out of breath, and the night, the tide trash builds up in front of my door. Dead time like the blades of a helicopter going up and down, up and down. I wait day and night, the rising tide in front of my open door. My feet never get wet, dirty, neither does my head or my heart.
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