To count the stones losing countis the sense of our life: the algebraof our displacements.To follow paths losing sense is the circumvolution, the evolution: the logicof our moments. But. No.There is no symmetry in our acts.Never the chance of steps that surprise usto salt.Our time machine. Forward.Never backward the meat machine.No turning back. No turning back.There is no remedy: deathis an incurable asymmetry.Huge is the ticking of the Clock butbut our time has the clutch, the vortexthe saltwater of a wave that covers us.It reshapes and hollows out the face, like sandrobs us of our flesh.

I found an empty chairand sat on itto find myself even emptier.I found a broken glassand looked at itto see my dissolved facea little prettierI found a steep doorwayand enteredin order to close my exit.From the poem 'Blue Stanzas.