He had always wanted to be able to play the piano
or the violin, for that matter, but at this point, Mr. Nothing,
although reluctantly, admitted that he could actually be
content with an ordinary harmonica, as he had already settled
once, like every future stranger, and managed to get along
with that fairly well for a while, considering the odds.
But there had never been enough time, and now it was
just a man flying a kite whom Mr. Nothing would never know,
Platocrates would ignore when feeding the seagulls,
and the poet, well, he was always trying to capture
nothing but his own silence.
hidden pilcrow 