I don’t walk through life — I claw at it. I don’t know how to walk it; with my nails and my teeth I only scratch at it, wear it down, and wear myself down in my former lies, then convictions, today skepticism I drag along. I don’t know how to do it, I don’t know how — and I search endlessly, maybe to find myself while I search, and if it isn’t me that I find, at least to stumble upon something by touching the inside of the furrows plowed into the mask of my life with the fingertips that now write verses, knowing themselves old and tired from seeking… to find themselves with me or with something while raking through my life I see in my wrinkled reflection what is happening to me, that now I’m aware that in searching for my soul I’m freeing the man I alone have imprisoned.
