we believe we become empty of ourselves, but that is not true. we become full, crowed like a bowl of rice. we become unconcerned with movement, moon over who we could be and do nothing about it. the mattress begins to obsess over your body. you let her. fascinated with how someone can seduce the stillness out of you. the fridge is empty and you are convinced you ate everything. in the mean of night, you roam the studio apartment like un espiritu left behind. you prefer not to bother the light with your inconvenience. instead, you contemplate your study desk like a surgeon ready to give bad news. the pages of poetry are just used instrument now, idle in a desert of pencils.