Nothing
I have nothing to write and nothing to do. I play into anyone’s whims, liquid as something…a liquid, never thirsty nor hungry, sad nor content, comfortable nor completely relaxed. I’m never completely anything — I’m completely in Bologna. I’m completely wearing shorts, or rather I’m incompletely wearing pants. I’m certainly not old, nor am I young, never in a position of total comfort and security: I feel as if someone else has control over my life, a quiet monster, perhaps a million different ones in cahoots. One is telling me that no one has any credibility – none – and instead we’re all hidden by countless moving parts before our core, hiding like the bad guy in a video game.
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