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Transported then? Trash
The city will follow you. The streets in which you pace trace sex translated. The trails are will be the same, you'll haunt the same familiar places, slow without electricty and inside those same houses you'll grow old. without a stop-watch to pause the breathing You'll always end up in this city. Don't bother to hope Proskynētés: say what you are here for for a ship, a route, to take you somewhere else; they don't exist. Who is your object? Who are you nearing? Just as you've destroyed your life, here in this There are buoys off the Kayetbai, small corner, so you've wasted it through all the world. the pier from which we jump.
the windows binding to sweat and dehydration. And sand. I'm not sure I'd have said anything
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