What if this is my last cigarette? If the eternal glow becomes no more than a stinking pool of blood. And why the moon would have to say something? If to conversations with myself have become feverish and aggressive. And what if I never write? If words are nothing but treacherous and if my sailboat, two seas echolalic seems lost. What if I just with everything and nothing at once? That's why everything is nothing. What if what I thought is only valuable ideas, they would have to accompany me wherever I go? Would it not be only in my head? In my crazed and increasingly tangled head. Should not all this be true? What if I dive between the aleph of the material and ideal, and would not have reached the maximum step planned? And what if you jump? What if no jump?
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