Let the memory frames run

not yet phoenix of a simulation

that perhaps it will never seem to be.

Effigy of me who do not exist

until they are.

It is only the urgency to avoid the present,

escape without conscience,

and life peels off

crumbling behind the shoulders.

We are all terminally ill,

suffering from an unknown syndrome,

an evil with an imponderable course

which can exhaust its cycle

in a few minutes or several decades.

And we sick, we stay

in an incalculable expectation. 

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