I love, and at the same time I am horrified, to see how time passes in my hands. It slips slowly, leaving me no choice but to look back and see that it's all over, morning, afternoon, day, my week, my moment, myself.
Since I left my job, I look at myself, in moments of strange lucidity, sitting in any corner, where no one can find me, digging deep inside my belly button while I wonder if my lover reads my Facebook posts, if the end of that series will be as I think, or if North Korea is finally going to destroy itself, subjects as relevant as certain, and completely within reach of my concern. At the same time, I have an infinite amount of things to do that accumulate, leaf after leaf in a moldy purple notebook and broken to carry it around, fat as it is useless. I don't do anything, it's the truth.
I lock myself up from the earliest in the morning until late at night, around my bed, while I submit to my existence thinking frightened that I do nothing and that nothing does anything to me.