Never, nothing is waste in me.
I have not the compulsion to keep things. I set them apart.
I cut, amputate, tear and let the remains free. Just incidents.
Surprises out of failures.
Then. Neglect. I let them assemble randomly.
And I do love the hunger with which they gather.
This way, I acknowledge, horrified, a will. Firm, firmer then the one I build as mine.
And do not speak to me of chance. I do not want it.
I pick the residues left in my memory. Mine or other’s leftovers.
Residues that look at and like each other. And bound and stay to gether.
Never, nothing is waste in me.
They barely stay there, apart and at sight, for they might call my name believing to have found a new sense.