Hyposubject

I was always waiting for a phone call; a message, something to connect my phantom days.

I was always waiting for disaster. Therefore my days were punished with fantastic vibrations.

I wanted the worst, and was embarrassed by this desire.

I dreamed of a brooch of thorns, of my unawareness.

I wanted to break the neck inside, but it’s gone, and I can't.

I knew to leave a trail of leftovers behind me and behind me.

I was consumed, inept, indifferent.

Time went on with amazing and exciting rates. The seasons, with great moves.

Sometimes my own name cheered me up when I saw it on paper.

From the moment I saw the rest of the horror, myself and myself were more or less strangers.

My actions were resistant to analysis, kidnapped under surveillance.

My body was defective, I could see it from my head and so there was no point in the clock or the
mirror setting.

I thought I was living someone else's life, but had no idea whose.