persona

he had this old habit of speaking about another self, in the third person, and this other self was still himself. one day he started a narrative in that way. and he lived the narrative he was writing. he sat in the spaces betwen the doubts and the expectations and made the words carry the shortness of breath that he had to spare. he drank. coffe or watter. and drank the serenity that dripped from his chest, like a potable swet, carefully crafted. and he droped the pen so that the emptiness in front of him would fil up with his looking forward. he made decisions. and took pills. he must have sensed that some day he would show the results of those moments around the paragraghs. he stapled to the present the toughts that the hand writting established. and that he one day did publish, wich goes as saying, that he onde day made public.