I stop at points, life is not systemic, too many interludes which
behave like hangovers. Stopping. Pausing and then there are interruptions, abrasions, love, the past comes in a cycle, a metaphor. Dreams. I wish I had stopped reading and then speaking. Words are the biggest thieves, stealing all your rancid thoughts. I wish the moon would come down. Have a stop over, here near my Byzantine house and set aglow my arcades of home. Then shatter my moribund dreams.
