His Only Wish Was To Touch by Ryohei Hase
What does it matter?
Immersed in a tunnel, soaked.
I was playing to not understand…
swearing.
I remember those days
seeing that light at the end.
Spectating.
Asking, imploring
with tears in the bones, she trumpeted.
Faceless.
Between memories.
All that I’ve said, what I have looked at.
And what does it matter your ask?
Does anyone hear?
I think I live, that I am among the noise, that I look at the walls, that these hands are mine, but perhaps I am mistaken and walls and hands are just memories of a past life. I said “I think” I assure you nothing.
—Oliverio Girondo
