Nothing is real but reality in a watercolour
fog washed with the secretions of the graveyard
shift, like the yawner’s mention of a scarlet dawn.
Is it the fool moon mocking the street lamps
with reflected light that holds terror for one,
or is it the crunch of pebbles with each tired step?
And while the outline of meals has long lost its meaning,
they are still necessary to keep up appearances.
After all, any of them could be supper.
I have heard about one-time dreamers who did not belong anywhere.
Sometimes I wonder if I am such a person myself. When I was born,
the authors I read were already long dead, some even before the first
road to Rome was built. The same applies to films, with the exception
of Roman roads, of course. I even sang “La Vie en Rose” with Satch
on rainy nights while practising the art of desynonymizing in the world
of appearances. And after all these years, I am fond of… Well, I actually
cannot think of anything at the moment, though I am sure there must be
something. But I have learned one thing: Some destinations are meant
to go there; some are only for changing planes.
hidden pilcrow 