42 to sunrise.
I’ve just realized.
I’ve just counted.
That’s all there is to do.
Count.
And all of a sudden I’ve just realized,
I am not the only one I can count with.
Not anymore.
Not ever.
40, that’s the number.
Small, decreasing number.
But only now I started writing.
That’s fine.
Not enough to close my eyes.
That’s fine.
I don’t want them to be shut.
I want them open wide.
Between the 4 and the 0 are three.
We are tree.
I never felt so much like myself.
Insomniac.
Writing about numbers.
Dreaming and writing and awake.
Eager for something indefinable.
A feeling.
Waiting.
Counting minutes.
Rushing.
Speeding up the pace for a bit.
Thinking of each step.
Anxiety, the word to be beaten.
To be assimilated.
Stimulated.
Proved and tasted.
The wait has always proven to be fair.
The fair way to any raise.
Exercise.
Body.
Mind.
I cannot speed up life.
But I can run.
I cannot see much forward in the dark.
But I can write.
The projection is enough.
Shakes the guts.
The body feels it.
It needs it.
The idea already fulfills it.
It’s physical, but still.
It's addictive, I predict.
Nunca te vi, sempre te amei.
Run.
Rise.
Fun.
Life.
No need to choose.
