I don’t understand people and people don’t understand me.
I am not like people and people are not like me.
I am wary of people and people are wary of me.
There are contusions on the desert of the real—my dreams, etched in the ideographic ruptures of an unspoken tongue belonging to no-one. Interpretation and misinterpretation are the watchwords of every temporal conjunction.
In the ecstatic identity of misery and happiness, I repeatedly discover the parallel identity of peace and war.
Shocked at claims about its being a game, life cries insistently that it is none other than the merciless clock.
Sometimes you lose.