Person(s)

There was a rhythm to my sleep. When I woke it was lost. Why did I leave that abandonment of myself, in which I lived? I don’t know what it was that was not. I know it rocked me gently, as though the rocking sought to turn me, once more, into who I am. There was a music that ended when I awoke from dreaming. But it did not die: it endures in that which stops me thinking. The poet is a pretender, who pretends so completely he even pretends to pain the pain he really feels. And those who read what he writes, reading of pain, feel truly neither of those pains he has, but what they themselves have not. So round its track goes wheeling, to entertain our reason, this string of carriages they call the heart.