Day Eleven. To Belong


Every millimeter of space, each molecule of oxygen, a gram of flour, the final word, one cent change. Everything belongs to someone. Even the right of excluding. 

I have fallen in love with the city, I admit it, I have done it as an aware adult, untidy beard and welcoming eyes, an abusive and conservative love, blind, dumb, old fashioned, leaning fully on my legs’ weight. On those heavy legs from back then.

Now that I have perceived the distance between me and the infinite, that I know I don’t want anything to belong to me, I have understood that no place wanting to keep you on the ground can be loved for real. And for sure New York is not a flying ground.

Leave a reply

Your email address will not be published.