Because I don’t speak like it is expected, it doesn’t mean I am incoherent. And because I want to escape the vulgarity of facts, it doesn’t mean I am blind to them. I see what they hide, ugly or graceful; I feel their full blow as they strike and bash.
Among them, my visions echoes in a hollow well of mistrust and fear because the only thing your kind want to acknowledge are scores and data.
I see ghost so I am never alone, I see them all of them, in Hades’ corridors between Bondi and Malabar, shadows of times gone and incarnate factual present. They play games in the murky light and poke me when I go back in the…
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