Bitter Pan eats some grass for me. And the dream traps his voice to be bound up with mine.
“I am not a man of your fantasy; I exist” he goes on telling me.
I do not pick any brick. My hands are heavy and of ivory; still sullen, cool in the color of ice. Time flows without being a flower. I look at the garden. My eyes fly around.
Bitter Pan is still here; here or there, it does not really matter.
“Smell me the time, please”, his voice is a gift coming as obsession to my ears.
Inside me the rabbit is afraid of the clock and runs away from the garden.
On the contrary the hare feels in a good mood and goes for the devil, diving for pearls.
How to find pearls on earth? There are no pearls hidden in the grass, my mind whispers to me.
I still drink my espresso. The meaning of “see-saw” is in between.
Past and future now coincide like two sides of the sharp coin.
Once upon a crime names changed as well as any omen for pressure’s sake.
Once upon a crime, you experienced time as body; invisible in material.
Roles become intricate.
What intrinsic intellectuality really means is a wonder.
Idea and image are divorced.
Parallel to the vortex of reality your image in the nude is a mirror body.
It never stops incorporating images from space-time…
Is reality one cake for action to the marrow?
The wild child inside you is gifted of witty intentions and hungry.
You seek the substance of a true contact; of truth beyond borders.
To act, you have to keep the faith narrow.
Bitter Pan insists more on a myth revival; drinking whispers for breakfast juice.
At least, I stay in bed for a long time. Before, to imagine seemed strange.
I see myself sitting. I am not moving.
Of one gangway with nobody inside I cannot discern any doors.
In a trip by train I feel so empty with no voice.
I want to go everywhere.
Bitter Pan cuts his side-burns for me; no result.
His new symbolic profile does not work for my train of thoughts.
Of his thinking that life is short and simple I am fond. This is ‘‘vita’’.
I decide to call myself Vita Bond.
But the spring voice is not back from the old times.
One spot shows Lego toys around; suddenly I remember who
The girl asking for her book to accept being buried in the sand is