two hundred seventy five thousand people are awaiting. I have only spoken to three. Two said they did not have another chance, unlike me. The other said he wants to help me. I need no help, he needs to help someone and I happened to be there. I have entered yet another layer of within. I am conciously getting lost. I am spinning three hundred thousand and sixty nine times with the intention of being totally disoriented when I stop. Where am I? how did I get here? and who are you? what are you doing with your hand in my hand?
And in the meantime I enjoy the flavour of transience imprinted in every gesture. Nothing takes me here or there. The levity of everything until I stop spinning and then the wavy image that my eyes will conjure up until they get used to stilness. I will slowly offer my hand then. No words. An incomprehensible silence if my hand goes unnoticed.
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