Not everything dies.

He wrote.
He wrote.
He couldn't write at all,
He had a writer's block.
Still he wrote,
He wrote...
He wrote.
He had his whole life to write about.
Except he had no life at all.
But he wrote,
He kept writing.
Even though he wrote nothing.
He could write about her,
If there existed a her.
He could write about songs,
Or movies, Or so,
He did not write about it though.
But then he wrote.
He wrote!
About nothing, he wrote.
About all the nothing he had.
That was everything he had.
Everything he had to write about, was nothing.
Everything he had was nothing.

He could have had it all.
He wanted nothing at all.
Still he wrote.

He kept writing until his hand hurt.
He kept writing until his brain hurt.
He kept writing until he died.

They always had been artists.
They were artists together.
And they were it until she died.

Não é correr por correr.

E se eu não tivesse de correr?
As luzes.
As histórias.
Mas
e se eu não tivesse de correr?

As piadas.
Todos os risos.
E eu aqui,
a correr.

Sempre a correr,
não entendo.
Tenho tempo.
Nunca tenho tempo.
O tempo é uma ilusão em mim,
que sou tempo
e o tempo é nada.

E, com tudo a correr, a passar, a ser, a existir,
ou não,
eu pergunto
e se, por acaso, eu não tivesse de correr?

Se eu não corresse,
haveria piadas?
Haveria histórias?
Haveria vida?
Haveria eu?

Suponho que só o descobriria,
se eu não tivesse de correr.
E suponho que é por isso que tenho de correr,
porque sem querer, não quero saber.