Epilogue

We don’t own much, in terms of furniture. We have a small sofa, a piano, a television; we own a book shelf but we don’t own a bed, a writing desk, a dining table. We have those things too, but they’re on loan. Our new home could resemble a Rubik’s cube after some of its teeth have been knocked out.

Words like to tumble around, without cohesion mainly, so I don’t record much. It’s a good thing too, as this type of writing recalls that unsophisticated form of poetry they insist you try out in high school, where the lines break in such a way as to create a picture of what the poem is about.

You know.


..............This............
...........is a poem..........
........that I've written........
...oh look, it is a pile of shit.....

I wonder if I will ever find the perfect time and place to sit down and write anything much.

If so, I’m guessing it won’t be here. Or now.