with sympathy, no more than looking at that but never ever slither and fall back into my own shoes, again, just to realise my incapacity as a mortal -fast like heat meets itself on the thumb. that there is the vivacity of what I cannot know; another is the function of the memory when something meaningful attempts to materially re-embody. while i was working with the plates and avoiding the spoonheads to enter the “hiatuses” of the forks, i remembered a fact and, as always, i succumbed it to the idea of poem -that i did not write. i don’t know. these days are but in the ideas and catching experiences from there, me carved on bed. though so far i have been not disappointed there is simply this void between two worlds, a lie; sounds like a sin if ever i call it normal. for i want power for the next year. i dream of eating alone in the corridor near two important places in the university my feet brave on the ground and wait for a boygaze. for i want isolation that leads to harmonisation with the self; posture; resistance. so much of these reveries lack flexibility, but i aver the art in here. that glide into the other unknown side of myself. un-fearing. this self that i cannot claim as my property. practically, by summing up my deeds and consequences of my presence to others’ lives and family, i should say now that i have been kind. and giving. fuck. im remorseful of this crumbling piece of time settling this moment with what that of Sisyphus, where i am sitting straight because of the girdle and that i am not allowed to hunch. the nice thing is i remember my scoliosis. i have a distracted back. my ribs dislocated. i am not fine if i am my spine. practically.