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Poem	Deep and unreachable in their darknesses, capriciously childish and tender when we write to each other, while we talk about one of us who is not around. I grew up with some of them, others, who I met as grown-up people, I could unerringly pick out in their photo albums on group pictures of their school classes. They've always been like that. They remember every detail I've ever told them about myself, and even some I left untold. There's always one of them around to remind me of important things about myself when I sink or soar too high in my petty existential delirium. Some of them had nearly given up on themselves and on me: they fell in and grew together with their own lunacies pulling me and lifting me up as a magnet picks up iron filings, or a comb torn bits of paper. People that I love, scattered along the meridians and along their abysses: among monsters of normalcy.
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