I read poetry.

It remembers the possibility of a living which is not far,

but it’ s not my life.

I quit reading.

Already I am in the field,

a field, which I think  to look at from outside,

but I am alreading inside.

I wake up and I am sad.

The day: a field carved with duties, time traps, frustrations.

The newspaper leads me into a world that is mine and not mine.

I have to doubt what I am reading, otherwise I can not stand to be part of this world.