I is for I.
I admit it, I am not real.
All this being so serious, all of it.
Even the flakiest pencil line, on paper, will do me good.
And if I would give the slightest thought to do it, a well painted circle on canvas will keep my fulfilled for an afternoon, like a brisk morning swim.
It is incredibly effective, one has to admit. This machine on my desk.
Humming slightly but nevertheless. It is all, so easy.
It is my habit. I have become so at ease with the keyboard.
I have the opportunity now to watch myself bending over an antique looking notebook, with a black pen, hand in hair, in a relatively crowded Starbucks in Friedrichstrasse Berlin Mittel. It is 1 pm. I am opposite 2 nice looking girls.
The black cup of coffee is untouched.
The page is blank while he searches his mind.
He is telling himself what he will do when he gets back.
I am telling myself what I must do.
Like Gatsby's list, I am even numbering my actions.
As if I am robotic and needs to be programmed.
While I went for a #1 next to the road about 5 years ago I stumbled on two puff adders mating.
But I am telling myself so much stuff, you know. It is just a nice thought.
I admit it.
I am not real.