“I’m dying.”

“Are you sure?”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“This is the third time I’ve heard you say that this week.”

“It’s true! I feel like my brain is constipated!”

“Oh! Now I see where the shitty ideas are spewing from.” He smirks ironically.

“I’m going to die from writer’s block.”

“Nobody has ever died from writer’s block! Can you quit whining?”

I look away and continue to sulk. He traces the invisible wood grains on the table with his fingernail and hums under his breath.

Outside, rain clouds paint my epitaph.

on the same line as me silverfish

After X-rays and blood work more tests … soundproof room with headphones
asked to nod through the glass window when I don’t hear the tones

in one ear,
a cascade, in the other
a cicada’s whine

when in the silence, cicadas flood white walls with tinnitus alarm, your eyes itch from staring at the sleeping dog, soft as a cotton head, breathing

blaming no end…
town council’s view
a mole hill of flyby dusting

00:00
date – one
month – one
copy-paste of the false masked like a tradition
it is a meter of personal choice either to melt into the crowd or to dedicate ourselves to our longings
nobody notices the big forefinger which the crowd has turned into
a forefinger perished by the falseness that pours form it

fireworks
nobody knows
what the time is

it slowly crumbles into little forefingers in a hurry to start again … the old stuff
they are so little that they cannot notice the laces of frost that have covered their cold homes
homes left by them about ten hours ago to spend a monthly salary for a new year party
the little stomachs rumble with hunger
(the delicacies do not satiate – they are a feast for the eyes)
they do not hear the whispering of the snowflakes
they do not even notice them
they are too busy to point at five or six little fingers that run over carefully
they are afraid not to be stamped out by the forefingers