The routine chews me with its mouth full of teeth. And I get numb myself exactly because it does not hurt. Each week I take care of something to distract myself: a new series, another book, another poem, another sketch, an old friend and never a bar or a party; waiting for the same fees, the next vacation, a debt and a bill to pay. And I turn off by smoking too much, eating just a little bit, sleeping too little, living off less and never complaining about every thing that confronts me and I do not plan, I keep numb. An antacid for burning and a lot of coffee for my anxieties. Everyday tears me apart with the warmth to which I cling to. I blame myself for infinite reasons; I collect anxieties and small irritations, but I do not take responsibility for not knowing what to do, like discarding what is not good and using me for better. In the meantime, I’m moving ahead with no flight plans, no escape routes or emergency exits. I come across Sundays, boredom, and other dead-end streets. The excesses all belong to me, the precipices call me by my nickname. I want to relief myself with poetry, jazz, wine, lies and some dreams, flirtation, selfishness, and ever-improper love. I quench myself with poisons and voids that push me once more to the days that massacre me like the hope of a prisoner awaiting his acquittal.