I am a mummy at rest in the blue coffin of the forests, in the perpetual roar of engines and rubber and asphalt.
What happened during the day sinks, the homework is heavier than life.
The wheelbarrow rolled forward on its single wheel and I myself traveled on my spinning psyche, but now my thoughts have stopped spinning and the wheelbarrow has grown wings.
At long last, when space is black, a plane will come. The passengers will see the cities beneath them glittering like the gold of the Goths.