I never knew I’d rot so consciously 
    Despite the way I fix my hair in front of God.
    Not for the sake of faith, but deconstruction.
    I’m loving the small moment of evilness, of tinnitus.
   
    One day the rhapsodist will not be a part of me,
    Neither the usher, nor the measurer and banshee,
    Yet all of them dispersed, a veil melted in my skin.
    I may still define myself by the roofs I’m watching.
    
    I don’t mind calling them an individual,
    For I should never bother wasting the cumulus
    By calling the outline this or that of the other.
    No, “friend" is enough.