You have a room
a room of memory,Â
where you sit and waitÂ
for life to happen to you.Â
You own that world
to maintain the momentary
order of things. You letÂ
your head wanderÂ
in all directions while secretlyÂ
guarding the placeÂ
where you have buriedÂ
your life's desires. Somehow,Â
in the most disorderly momentsÂ
of life, you seek a happening
in your life through memory.Â
In the brief instant of life,Â
you look in the mirror바카라”
you feel trapped inside your body,Â
in the mirror, in life,Â
and in all the other thingsÂ
that remotely gazeÂ
at your reflection. You realizeÂ
that the world is such a small placeÂ
for you바카라”small for your desires,Â
small for your grief. In the night's
quietest hour, when you seeÂ
life through the gauze of memory,Â
the world vanishes from sight.Â
All you can see isÂ
your solitary self, pulled togetherÂ
by needles of memory,Â
weaving life and grief.