My earth. I always expressed my world, not what is there to see, nor touch, nor smell, but - the unseen; or that which remains wild, however - noble - intense. (I imply a different sense to the term "wild", in such a state I cannot melt it the meaning into words)
I lack any type of communication with them, here I refer to children. I lack most types of communication with adolescents as well. With the elderly (certain. i must remember we live in a certain country, in a certain historical context... so I must write - intellectual elders) however since I was a child I was fond of. Now with none. I am again hanged by the interior air. Air, air, air. No space even for emptiness. The temperature oscillated like that symphony altered by the inharmonious instruments. Neither the cold winter breath could have healed the pox with its vicious pus and red and burnt skin of letters and skin, blackened and deep. Again. Again. Again. The only difference now is that I almost lack in this as well. Just... apathy.
Even this now, by being... all but... air.

I always expressed my world. In every text I did not even try to imitate reality, all that is here already. A pack of cigars near my desk, etc. I understand what all this means, though I do not care. I care of that which is not, or that third eye - philosophy, psychology, symbolism and metaphor. Ideas, methods etc. Music choice? - classical, and that is all. Complexity. Even no dialogue in a text - at least for me.

When I am not I represents a lobotomized (non)self future.

damp. damp. damp. I have nothing, HERE I have no spirit no more. BLANK. Left, there is a space. ... to the left again. right again. emptiness... no room even for emptiness. just. there. There I might.