the ethereal soul of a seventeen year old named Joey. but it's up to me today. not Joey, but Joey also. the future that gets stuck in my hands like a skein meaningless. and you turn to tell me how we look crumbly. to see how we are brittle. Vasco Brondi was singing for me on Saturday night. he writes well when he says that the appalling things that come true and to me. I tremble in my fragile nineteen. in perfect solitude in millenovecentonovantuno. I have the black bob and a comma on the wrist that sometimes I would not have. I drink gallons of black coffee and bitter. I do not see anything. empty. and the air is too precarious as the manholes along the main road. and G. and his words in the middle of notte.e the sea is not there. and there is nothing. Only liters of white wine and strawberry pie. and I do not smile a lot more '.
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