I always said that it’s impossible to live and be aware. That’s how ‘I’ began but ‘I’ needed more. The further ‘I’ went, the more ‘I’ needed to imagine other landscapes, other conquests. I am blind on earth but I know the way. The same gestures repeated over and over daily; I know the tastes, the artificial flavors; I am capable of not breathing. My hands don’t grope. I know the way and invented new turns, other landscapes. The further forward I go, the more I must leave my habits behind. So I imagine that things are not as they seem, that my life is changing, that boredom wears off. A hole under my feet appears that I never felt. I can keep on walking because I want more, always more. Nothing serious can ever happen. If I suffer, I could die and suffer will not last. I had to stop my thoughts at night to sleep even I can sleep, thinking of money even though I can work or do anything I want. I had to feel fear to live. But why should I go further in this erroneous dream? The people are blurry, the sea unchained. I find nothing real. Neither that which is striking, nor that which troubles in this aimless mixture where even violence has gone soft. The hard water no longer rips up the dust and truth hides, hides to die as an arbitrary shape in all the glasses of the world, all the seas. The day is running out of breath, and the night, the tide trash builds up in front of my door. Dead time like the blades of a helicopter going up and down, up and down. I wait day and night; the rising tide in front of my door. My feet never get wet, dirty, neither does my head nor my heart.