is closed, obscure, blind windows, gray walls, narrow passages. I
close boxes, they rise up everywhere. I have just enough room to eat
I feel like an animal, Hunted down as I move. Up to just days
before departure, I still didn’t know whether I was capable of leaving
and especially of arriving, yet I never slowed down the pace. When I
came to the new place, I couldn’t imagine anything, I looked at the
yellow color of the kitchen, I took to that, and to the one that tirelessly
covered the walls.
I feel detached from myself, but I can’t stop thinking of poetry.