In moments of distress, I find myself asking trivial questions, answers to which I can simply
disregard without any harm, so stop holding me accountable for every forgotten conversation
on some twopenny-halfpenny matters you deem important by the mere fact of your presence,
because if life happens to be the last sentiment I like to pursue, I would rather be the swimmer
from the Portrait of an Artist, an incidental faceless body still more alive than the pink jacket
at the edge of the pool—that quite handsome foreground hero, yet known only by association.
And although a lost cause, you could at least appreciate that there is an irresistible charm
to bystanders—the background figures of the elevated posture.