Night lost in smiles of oilcloth and cellar corners. The music is too heavy. My right eardrum scratches as I touch my dental plaque. I have too many hours of crying, clocks to pick up and whispers to light up. Only the silence in my head redeems me.
I hear Pintilie whimper at the girls with staring eyes. The beads are caught in their woolen clothes almost like cherries. An old woman at a table dances in her mind like a cow touched by a horse. The waitress is always too worn out. She is enrobed in water. Water flows from her mouth, on her mouth and through her jaws. The cold outside eats her from the cleavage. Her buttocks go towering and indifferent. It gives the impression that any sucker who has a handkerchief with him is fooling her. Sometimes she nibbled a piece of napkin from my palm. I don't even touch her with my mouth when I give her orders. My discreet signs would whip her bare chest. She doesn't know how stung she is. Some would say she was born in the hive.
People have sick faces. Pieces of macrame stuffed with crochet are detached from their circles. Nobody knows what position he holds. Everything around looks virgin. The greenhouse effect eats from my palms. I left my baby at home. He makes noise no matter how much I pull the curtains. He caresses himself in the cold and in the warm. He doesn't know how to communicate with my teaspoon. His mother did not teach him. The mother is a woman like all women. She bites the skin where she kisses. The mother falls in love only when she feels cold. She is sensitive to flies and has an allergy to quiet times. I never treated her. She is untreatable. She likes to play theater every day at 10 o'clock in the morning. Then the pigeons run wild in the field while I make polenta. I promise I'll make polenta one day and bring it to my grandparents. Grandma is patient. She only criticizes the season.
I'm craving raspberries and I'm sick of fir buds. I would run after fish that doesn't know how to swim. I would go to a place that moves from today to tomorrow. I'd like to write my name on a bucket. I dreamed a lot without knowing why. I feel so wintery, like a face licked by a sad cow. Otherwise, any cow leash would startle me. I really like sleeping with does that think they're stags. I only love the ambitions of little people. Great people bore me terribly because they don't know how to cry. When they cry, they stop and burst into laughter. It is not easy to cry right from one end to the other. You need a lot of strength to believe that you can complain for a long time, about an hour a day. I cried once until spring came. I would like to stop now. In a roar.
