untitled-05

the black rain pits olives of silence: I feel ancient, cold, distant, as if existence itself has become my lowly immigrant and I, a language that it struggles to speak. words, phrases, they mean nothing to me now – I cannot begin to speak to myself like this (I speak the way a dog ceases a comically large bone to its owner). I cannot even begin to walk towards something, anything, much less away or further into this rain, I am drenched in a water that is not even mine, feel cold for a wind that ceases to blow for me, perturb me, even my sickness is not mine it too will leave me. slowly, slowly, talk to me slowly, for I might hear you too clearly and forget of myself in the black rain.