From my window I see the world,
the wall that always bloom words.
I don’t know who writes them.
People, poets, just bore me.
I think I’m sick. I’m claim,
while not claim anything or anyone.
It weighs on me to have nothing to say.
There is no scandal in my life,
nobody to love, or take a goring.
The window is closed. I read no more.
* a verse by Wallace Stevens