As he woke up, a lantern was flashing, anyway, not a thing he could not get rid of; he woke up, I said, but not without a scatter eye, rashing every corner in the room, not a room, not a corner, a single row, a couch. Bedridden, the word appeared in his head many times, enough for now. Now I would like to speak of the torments he beared everyday, the domestic monuments he held every here and then, not a thing he could not manage, not a thing, actually, not a tought; isn't he the full minded one? a blown or a stroke in the jaw stretching the many faces he remembered, all of them in a single day, a back pack full of secrets. Oh, my youth, all angst driven, all gross pipes running in the water through the wall (a rough wall, I must say). Not a time I could stop and look at my shoulders, looking for something forgotten, a sudden gust of wind refreshing any memory I never really had. All my idols gone, all my pupils in a rage. Am I done now? Surely not, I wish, I beg not, you can tell, not now, please. I've been here many times, yesterday, not a chance to meet (as coincidences go so pretty, so nice, with or without you), never thought a flower could die so slowly, and so flashy, and so quick, and so yellow, most of all yellow, as things go in black and white as soon as they're written, they're yellow as long as they're remembered. Someone is missing, waiting for me to move, not the flowers, the books. Ah, the books, bunch of lies. I arranged a color for fiction, a color for poetry, a box, meanwhile, I'll be doing my account. So late now. I know, I've had my regrets, but they go as I sleep, and once I wake up they're forgotten, a deleted routine in a program. I've seen that. I woke up. As he woke up, oh, I've done that, not now.


Didier Thierbout, On Account of my years as an adolescent, Grove Press, 1991