Waiting for signs
Emptiness of a site.
Stricking in its desolation reflecting my longing for improbable truths
It all came different
Who might tell the difference between you and me, Hypocritical Reader?
Slanting
A Floor too cool for Corn.
That's what I am. Or was . Or wish I were.
Dissipated into a moltitude of sounds, I beg for coldness. I beg for the magic precision of a steelneedle.