I’m the Minotaur. It’s written on my back and chest, on the ideas I have, on the dreams of burning skin under the sun of a city I don’t recognize anymore.
Whose Minotaur I am, then?
Whose rock I will take to hit my head upon the mirror?
Whose tunnel I’ll cross, and whose chair, pen, notebook I am using to justify my intentions?
My head is far away. I wonder sometimes if I’ll be able to stick it again to my body.
Oh, head of mine. Come to me. Come and defeat me. Come and be mine again.
Vancouver doesn’t exist.
Mexico City doesn’t exist.
Neither does Seattle, Peru or Alabama.
I should not say anything about Paris. Not tonight, at least.