I don't recall at what age, nor where, whether in the great wet south or on the fearful coast, beneath the shrill cry of seagulls, I touched a hand and it was...hand.

I'm afraid of everyone,
of cold water,
of death...
That's why, in these short days,
I'm not going to listen,
I'm going to pen myself up
and lock myself away
with my most perfidious
enemy...