my hands cannot reach, cannot let go, my feet are not steadily grounded, my head is not willing to give energically the order for deployment of strength.__i am here, hanging, in much pain, but am willing to do nothing, as i do most of the time; i am here by will, by force of desire, by the inscrutable force of puerile yearning.__i can try, i can pretend i try, i can convince myself of trying, but, then again, trying amounts to nothing, or does it? no, not to much...
i am a coward, true... but not at all sad, or is it? probably so... probably so... the only comfort i can think of is that there is no such thing as coward-ness... but, there is, i know it by heart, i know all of the little wrinkles in the cloak of coward-ness, i've driven them all, i've walked them all, spoken them all, heard, seen and touched them all.__my life's experience is no more than the touch of coward threads of my own soul, mind, body and spirit -if there is no difference between them all, then forgive my introducing categorical mistakes-, no more than the contemplation of the fear behind my eyes, of the tremble of the world through them, of the abrasive touch of reality upon this frail creature, of this frightened thing i call me
these hands, these feet, this head, these eyes.__we are all being hunted by what lies beneath them, by what is above them, by what is nothing more than these hands, these feet, this head and these eyes.