There is nothing else to do but wait, watch, listen
The sound and flow of fragments taken from this universal judgement,
I seem to hear the distinct voices and words of each one as if they were
my own, and in this game between hallucination and life, I concentrate on
remaining, perhaps, a little saner in a spread of madness.
And then I see her, not far from me
Her hands are small, underdeveloped
The hands of a child
Her face, on the other hand, is full of wrinkles
Like the nasty grimaces, tantrums and kicks of an unwanted child
Of an adolescent love, never declared
A life that never blossomed
Invisible
Stolen from time and space
Yet never suffered, regretted or repudiated
Her tapping on the wood can be heard from afar
Like a woodworm attacking the white linen laundry
Of her grandmother’s high bed, ah, this bed now so coveted,
imagined, desired
The Machine is always there, lurking
It looks at you so seductively that it can perfectly
Daze you
It waits, towering, like a giant construction
The Machine is always there, lurking
And ready to devour
You mustn’t look at it, love
Promise me, my dear, that you will never look at it