Stories of the heat rise above the boards and the walls bounce them, like lies. Walls are made of stuff that hides from me, those measurements, the mason’s spans. Dust is the choke, and across vision there’s a bar. I wake countless times and find again a repetition of minutes, those divisions where I may have shifted but didn’t, a history turned out like a mediaeval manuscript, beautiful but brittle, and my life being a dream, a discard, as though a century had passed and I forgot. But there are minutes that remember me, misprints in a car park. I was lost with words that made no sense as answers, but sung for me bound with the blindness that was thrown upon me. And walking one day over the asphalt past the library and the church, I knew I would repeat this. One day when I still did not know myself. It was both a fault in timing, and maybe a gift of light that I kept trusting. It was a birth I didn’t want, having trusted in a kind of truth that leads to lies. You know, an exchange such as books speak about. After that, his tongue tasted stale and although his hands insisted at something, I could not speak. Not in any way, not in that way. At least I learned about timing, how silence carries it. How to break and how to turn, even if I still mistrust meaning.