To watch the clock and live. To appear
better than you should. Because that is all that
remains for us. To appear. To be discreet.
To see as if not having noticed.

The untouchable reserves have been spent.
Only a single season remains for the entire year.
Irony offers no help. That is completely
ironic. Humanness is not funny.

Humanness would be good. Innocence,
how good innocence would be. Or
knowing how to shoot accurately, and some
old doll carriage. For practice.

Everything is more or less quiet. You can�t even get angry.
No one says: be cool, my friend.
No stopping. No acceleration gathering momentum.
Those who need a change buy hats of different colors.
Something ended. Nothing begins.
Each morning beginning at nine, athletic training.
We learn not to live. The teacher has
a black belt. An absolute corpse.

We fly in airplanes. Go out for walks.
We meet someone like us. Sluggishly multiply ourselves.
Ask: who�s there? it�s me, your beloved.
Who, who? no one�s there already, my dear.

They ignore us. They photograph us clean through.
Mirrors refuse to accept our faces.
We page through empty albums, because that�s all that�s left.
We look in front of ourselves, as if we had not noticed.


� 2004 by Gintaras Grajauskas