My letters arrive with no return address. No footprints, no trails, no hints. Letters orphans. Write with latex gloves. To close on someone abducts Opinel tip to put the saliva for me. And if he refuses he cut an ear. They say it works. No one must suspect nothing. Nobody can understand how much I love you. And if they do not deserve to know. People are humus-detritus with more or less human. Head more or less human, with feelings that resemble something that resembles a human with empty eyes and watery, like those seen in fish. My letters will no return because you know too well that are mine. Will the phrases of a writer-musician-writer-creative-writer-painter-phony. Above all fake. And especially anything that has nothing to do with anything useful. Someone who once recorded with GPS and sheep believed he had discovered the hidden paradise valley Chistau spinners. And while you're away I'll wait here up, caught between the spiral staircase of this empty nest, with balls of paper with the hours.
