A random walk, its ordinary motion blurring chronology. Behind, a seascape. As if on a ship’s deck.

Fear of defeat is an old habit. All this fuss, with my hat pushed back. Honeyed phantastic. En- raptured soul. Another blow.

From the end of the corridor, at the kitchen window. These frosts are cruel. I am not up to them. Out on the balcony, basking.

History is trash. Elaborate battles make peace and then, after spectacular defeat, I may go and I may not.

I’m in a bad mood, forever. We bring no resemblance. Torment and dreams. Grotesque and in- clement. Always the same amazing luck.

Rest before the fireplace, forget fine spacing. To control noise by attacking the odds. Grope for the knob.

Shutting out light and air. Cold stone floor. Sinking. Devouring pit. Dissolve, now, the dungeon.

Streaks of light stream from your shadow. Redisposed. Clouds are not simply carried. We observe words and winds.

The door slams behind us. Not so much forced by the sun as simply coasting under our own inertia.

The knives of reality. Repeat the names. Doves, when they fight. Scorn is best and yes, we may go and we may not.