We’re all second readers of ourselves in time
And editors of an incomplete and unfinished book.
Sometimes like an almost empty pen
Coming and going in the same line of a letter
Trying to fix its unwritten parts
Or passing over the same place
(Until to rip the paper in some cases…)
Trying to cover, to erase
A word, a sentence or more.
Living it’s all about
“I don’t remember”.
Yet or again.