Thursday, 2 December 2004


The envelope on which I wrote a poem... it raises itself as a question.

The poem was not a poem but an aphorism.

Potency is the regard of the dreamer, it said.

I left the envelope in a friend's room. It was nothing to do with him, save his presence. He read it and felt ashamed.

I have been a bad friend, he said.

I denied his statement.

That wasn't about you, I said. That was about someone else.

But it could have been about me, he said. It could have been about me.

It wasn't, I insisted.

It may as well have been, he said. It may as well have been.

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