I like to dry my clothes outside. I thought I was walking fast until I got to New Zealand. When I was very young, I believed that life was not worth living after fourty years old. I take a 5 k walk before my first meal of the day, but after several cups of coffee.
(Inspired by Edouard Leve, Autoportrait. I found an English translation at the book fair in Nelson in 2020) 
I close my eyes to listen to my roots, the roof over my head an illusion that did not hold up, I would take somebody else’s voice to fill the guest card and then lay down, exhausted, in my dark stories.
My hands, from the cold air hide in my pockets. Dark horizon but following the path, skimming the ground with my shoes in the gravel. Is it sky or earth? 
other people's stories
in the lifeline that stretches when
closing one eye. Or the two of them trying
to tell me the path. Walked. Travelled. Used.
Out of breath.I must rest. 