A man passes by with a loaf of bread on his shoulder.
I´m going to write, after that, about my double?
Another sits down, scratches, picks a louse out of his armpit, kills it.
What´s the point of talking about psychoanalysis?
Another has entered my chest with a club in his hand.
Shall I speak then about Socrates to the doctor?
A cripple goes by giving his arm to a child.
After that, I´m going to read Andre Breton?
Another shivers with cold, coughs, spits blood.
Will allusions to the Profound ever fit here?
Another searches the gutter for bones, rinds.
How shall I write, after that, of the infinite?
A laborer falls from a roof, dies, and no longer eats lunch.
Innovate, then, on the trope, the metaphor?
A merchant cheats his customer by a gram of weight.
Speak afterwards of the fourth dimension?
A banker falsifies his balance.
With what face shall I weep in the theater?
An outcast sleeps with his foot behind his back.
After that, won´t someone talk about Picasso?
Someone goes sobbing to a burial.
How, then, go into the Academy?
Someone is cleaning a rifle in his kitchen.
What´s it worth to talk about the Beyond?
Someone goes by counting on his fingers.
How shall I speak of the Not-I without screaming?