beneath me an abyss stinking of darkness full of days extorted from memory full of days that can't be born for me at least alive i behold i deceive myself maybe it's not inside (maybe) anger of mine or at least my mediocrity restrained thick air within nostrils of mine so well that its claws could not reach further so well that if not heart at least mind is still able to choose now im almost certain of it certain of advantage i am able to accept even those all lost days mysterious hours, which i cannot count to rejoice that im able to assemble all the pieces of broken mirror and not to remember all pictures it holds and not to remember words which poured out of me like a pus... who am i able to become if deep wounds made by nails most likely made by madly clenched fists are able to be seen upon my hands? and arms and neck are decorated by jewelry of crust taking particular forms not because of accident?