Changing From The Ghosts Of

Art Gives Us The Illusion Of Liberation From The Sordid Business Of Being.

I Am The Suburb Of A Non-existent Town, The Prolix Commentary On A Book Never Written. I Am Nobody, Nobody. I Am A Character In A Novel Which Remains To Be Written, And I Float, Aerial, Scattered Without Ever Having Been, Among The Dreams Of A Creature Who Did Not Know How To Finish Me Off.

I Don't Know What I Feel Or What I Want To Feel. I Don't Know What To Think Or What I Am.

I'd Like To Be In The Country So That I'd Could Like Being In The City.

Should You Ask Me If I'm Happy, I'll Answer That I'm Not.