Your Monologues. Words. Without sound. Heavy though. You feel them. When they unfold the images. Fascination. In your own dimension. Displayed. Prefaces are missing . You don’t ask for subtitles. You know every syllable. They are born in your breath. They fit everywhere. Companions. Waiting for you. To place them in a row. In your own book. Being indifferent themselves .They don’t search for a reader.
