Untitled Events
The memory couldn’t match the things. Events that remained
without a place, vanished. You could certainly imagine
an ashtray somewhere else, a hanger, the fragrance
of cologne in the neighbourhood barber shop just before
they close the stores on Saturday evening and
the beautiful woman who a little later after scratched
a mandarin with her nail, slowly, smelling her fingers,
vanished under the lights of the Station. Forgotten,
forgotten, exiled, not adaptable to the chaotic storage room
with the ammunition and the nylon curtains.
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