There’s a concrete scene I can’t remember,
but the frame remains locked
in my dream of this impossible image.
If I am still dreaming,
the place bombed the metaphor.
Everything stayed
but noise like a pouring silence.

There’s no reason to deny an endless moment
or the end of anything.
If I linger on here I’d realize the space may disappear;
and I could stop being here,
not ‘cause of me but the other.

Perhaps someone is standing there for me,
on the other side of.
A stain on the window covering the stain that exists
on the other side of the window.
On the other side of.
And before...
before when I was nothing...
Then everything becomes clear and anticipates the image.

The memory is almost written with a single word
(another word I don't know).
Reality must be something like this...
and I don't really mean reality
but wondering if these pieces of...
.... but we keep stuck trying to understand,
looking for something that...