I have arrived in Crete. The wind is howling around the corner of the building. I am on the corner of that building. The waves are crashing the fortress guarding the entrance to this city I have come.
I have made my bed with such ritualistic rites of utmost perfection. I am alone in a room I could live out my life but the cars and the horns and the guns and the hate keep me running to see what really is going on. I see the children I will never have, for I cannot at now keep still but will run to someplace, which I will arrive in walking.