Every day,
One through seven,
The Past through to the Nearer,
I know where,
I know when,
I don't know how.
Futile and pointless scribbles,
And then (I think) to the gibberish of another idioma.
There you are,
But then you're gone.
To the room with long walls,
And my best friend, who sits in the corner,
Still in the dark.
Much later you rush,
And outside you walk,
Opposite to my own,
Into the blinding sunlight,
With your restricted pupils.
