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In here you will find the answers you are looking for

I went to medical school because the doctor in Reguengos served the water crackers at mass and men took their hats off to him without his saying hello to anyone.

A. L. Antunes

There is hardly space for my hands on my desk. Sometimes I wonder how tall a tree is standing on the glass. The easels, one on each side supporting the glass, creak at the chilly wind, creak at the moving of my hands, creak at every sip coming from across the desk, they creak so often they don't, at all. A chapstick for the bastard aryan lips that disintegrate with a glimpse of the sun, with a glimpse of a bite, of a kiss, no, these I don't like, is balancing right by the outer edge of the glass, risking to fall in front of the window and melt in the summer, crystallize in winter. It tastes of woman, crushed pomegranate and olive oil, and blood at the banks of the mouth, it's only the lips, the mouth tastes jasmine tea that's gone bitter, and soft water, hard water, does it even matter, you'd know better anyway. On the other edge, there's her pocket mirror from back then, whose? they ask, äh, I give my favorite response, äh (egal, was soll's,...). On thoughtful days I'll flip it open and guide the sky inside. It's a pocket mirror with the stamp of a shoeshop, not a piece of art, it does the job though, the room fills with oceanic weather, Atlantic rain, Subsaharan heat, Red Sea drought, sky from every route she sailed, every route I thought she sailed. This makes up for the Nordsee routine, this makes up for nothing. The cup always stands on the brass coaster bearing the reminder, don't worry about perfection, yes, I'm not the competitive type, just the washed, washed out Gary Cooper type. Rulers and pencils seem to sprout from every niche. You shouldn't disrespect a book with ink, you shouldn't disrespect a book with crooked lines. The flashlight that has seen one too many throats hides in the box, no reason for the Old Spice sticker on the lid, maybe because there's the boat, maybe that's the reason for everything that is and isn't, a reason why every landlocked place treats its beasts like convicts. Swollen notepads, thin notepads, sheets in various hues of age, books I've read, books I've yet to read, yet to read again, they are piling around the illumination of the screen and it swallows them word by word and only a dozen words return from their adventure. The deck of nude cards has travelled a lot already, it's been laid on this and that airport, this and that car, this and that bed, even on the goddamn desk with no space on it, I always make space for a forty thieves.