24 Hours

In the morning I open my eyes and I count silently, dusting wrinkles off the clock. The perfect hour when sleep is more sweet. At noon I open the information to see what level they have put me in: or have they deleted me? I sprawl and open my big mouth. My soul its out, and now tears flow down my cheeks with rage on to the floor: dreams... very precious dreams. My wrath makes me scream. My hands tremble on one blue wedge, that was from a celebrity writer. Somebody said if I wrote with him I would be a celebrity, too. If I had been born in Paris I would be a lady, but I was born in a different world. Better to forget who I am, sometimes. I run with no identity on the bank of deep water. Maybe it will swallow me with all my ideas; with all my words spoken (or not) to strangers. I will be free!