Defragmentation

I have grown in an ocean of void.

Veiled limbs move in the caress of flesh-coloured silence, arch in the shadow of intimacy. There is a body unknown. There are words that may not be mine. There is as always the worn-out business of strangers in mirrors. Quite a convenient business.

I might drift away. I might - only.

Shaded lips try to sing a tune. That I have not heard nor sung before. That which is not a variation, not another alteration of the same old urge. But it comes unwillingly through the throat with colours and textures I despise. The usual business of self-loathing. Quite a gratifying business.

A ghost wanders about the French tearoom. About my own eyes. About my own words. About the kingdom of boredom and crude words that desperately sound affected and vain.

Something wants to pour out through the lips.

Crouched figure in the semi-darkness of remembrance, discuss with itself the consistency of all known emotions and sighs. The smell of wood. Wood polish. Mind your steps. There is recognition in the mirror, only then the business starts to make sense.

Something wants to pour out through the lips. A voice. That is beyond mimicry, maybe, at last.

Curled up body in the ticking of the hours bends closely on the crude words, for it knows there is, behind the pretentious business of contingence tailing existence, behind the thunders of rhetoric, behind the unbearable piling of millenaries, ages and eras, that led to the case of individuals debating the sake of individuals, it knows there is, before all, a scandal.

Accident.

The body longs to stretch. It knows there is, patient and scarce, behind scandal, a miracle.

Soundtrack: "Broken Harp", PJ Harvey