III I drop the document open, without saving, without formatting. I erase systematic, virtual and infinite tracks. Weak, cowardly attempt to try to protect myself, contain visceral urges, and preserve some control. On the other hand, in a parallel, my intestine unfolds in autophagy. Diarrhea, dehydration, that's what I like, self-punishment. I reread, I understand and I am reluctant but finally I accept it, I wrote something I liked. I wrote, I liked it, I felt it was, that it passed, relief. I can hardly believe I'm finishing something. I link the text, wrap it, share it. It was possible. It's almost late, I make the bed. Tasks, routine, being fed, feeding the cat, survival. Close my eyes and pray for digestion, in such a way as to hear the wind reflected in the leaves of the palm tree, the centerpiece of the landscape from my window. When writing with your own blood, you need to know how to manage the healing and bleeding sessions, the periods of nourishment and sacrifice, just as in any science. Hot reflux under the table: vomiting is a natural need for cats. From bed to table, it's definitely late now. Time travels, through the weather vanes of the day. I know it already attracts you, I repressed you, I kept you but not without denting the edges of your worn portrait that I carry in my arteries, even so my fingers continue to compose tracks and more tracks of letters and sentences and paragraphs, the sounds of the keyboard keys , the wind, the palm: Deliciously unnecessary. The pleasure of full existence after the purge. The freedom to now be. And yet come back, come back and go back to good pleasure always at the same point, as I never stop growing, and finding your face in new faces, and that will always be my no bigger, but very big question.