by Ioana Moldovan
I was tired of lying to the old blue sky and living under the dirty ground.
Is this life a joke?
I was tired. Was I tired? Maybe I was . . . sad, just sad . . .
and always lying with delight and forever joking about this fucking, life.
Was I empty?
Was I whole?
Ambivalence was my middle name.
Am I lying?
Yes or No?
But how could you know, when I couldn't know myself.
I was tired, just tired, always and forever, tired.
Tired of what?
Fuck knows . . .