Every morning is greeted with hollow dents
in the walls of my room and my marrow.
The emptiness with which the day is attended is inexcusable,
yet let it be better tomorrow.
It will arrive just like the days that came before
and the furniture will still stand unmoved,
the pillow next to me will still remain an excess
and I will still be trapped in solitude.
Immobile, at moments the spirit dances away into space
and I watch it go,
It joins all the other souls lost and they combine in a promenade.
They do it with grace…
And I remain paralyzed in the moment with anxiety,
And the silence vindicates and spreads through the sphere,