Thursday, 14 January 2010
Less time than it takes to say it, less tears than it takes to die; I've taken account of everything,
there you have it. I've made a census of the stones, they are as numerous as my fingers and some others;
I've distributed some pamphlets to the plants, but not all were willing to accept them.
I've kept company with music for a second only and now I no longer know what to think of suicide,
for if I ever want to part from myself, the exit is on this side and, I add mischievously, the entrance, the re-entrance is on the other.
You see what you still have to do.
Hours, grief, I don't keep a reasonable account of them;
I'm alone, I look out of the window;
there is no passerby, or rather no one passes.
You don't know this man?
May I introduce Madam Madam? And their children.
Then I turn back on my steps, my steps turn back too,
but I don't know know exactly what they turn back on.
I consult a schedule; the names of the towns have been replaced by the names of the people who have been quite close to me.
Shall I go to A, return to B, change at X?
Yes, of course I'll change at X.
Provided I don't miss the connection with boredom!
There we are: boredom, beautiful parallels,
how beautiful the parallells are under God's perpendicular.