Maybe there is a word in the language of strays; written in the books they never kept.
It would be wasted anyways, as each word is wasted, this empty ringing, a silence hanging from a dead phone.
A poor poet writes: ‘today small things remained small, and in the distance the mountains kept their size,’ but at least he is honest.
Our hearts plunder and break like waves on the shores of the world. Who, if given a choice would want to be a man?
Better to be a dog—who would know the word appropriate for giving up, when nothing changes but yourself.
Moving place to place, a fool to Novelty: so small, and full of pain.
