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Cloud eaten by the air;
For months
bile spilled from throat,
‘cause I don’t trust anyone:
it rains a little less.

I’m still afraid of death;
I’ll “take every pill that I can find.”
When I’m drunk at night
stumbling in that light
the sky speaks:

““You’ve “learned to hear like
a psychiatrist”
your self-faith is a
mask that hides you from: --”

--I want to be alone.
The air smells of images,
so I eat some snow;
in sleep my mind is glimmering.
Disconnected from reality:
where meaning finds me on it’s own.

“What is it that resonates in us?”

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