I can see in the architecture of the colonial building the tormented looks of the girls who undress their dolls to recognize themselves in the plastic because there is nowhere to look at the nakedness.
Cologne or this meticulous cultivation of modesty
I. On a rest of the night she does not know where to put her dress. And I don't know what to think of the beautiful. Because I got used to the beautiful to love each other with the sad. As a mother accustoms two brothers to shake hands. Nostalgia is a wicker vessel that rests in the dense paths of blood.
A man's mutilated hand hangs from a branch. Mutilated-Armed-THE HAND. Like a leafless tomb earring THE HAND. Honorable valve arm that was stranded on 18th Street. And then I recognize where the modesty comes from. Where do the scorned eyes come from? Instant fear. The substitute for laughter. The nervous breath. The meddlesome throat in the void.
It is the feeling of not having kinship with the world. To observe outside-outside. And then the people are like the platforms They cross the cities and the inside is not ventilated. They expect to find themselves somewhere without knowing that they belong to the environment.