My mind is a current full of debris

To live a dispassionate and cultured life in the open air of ideas, reading, dreaming and thinking of writing – a life so slow it constantly verges on tedium, but pondered enough never to find itself there. To live this life far from emotions and thought, living it only in the thought of emotions and in the emotion of thoughts. To goldenly stagnate in the sun, like a murky pond surrounded by flowers. To possess, in the shade, that nobility of spirit that makes no demands on life. To be in the whirl of the worlds like dust of flowers, sailing through the afternoon air on an unknown wind and falling, in the torpor of dusk, wherever it falls, lost among larger things. To be this with a sure understanding, neither happy nor sad, grateful to the sun for its brilliance and to the stars for their remoteness. To be no more, have no more, want no more… The music of the hungry beggar, the song of the blind man, the relic of the unknown wayfarer, the tracks in the desert of the camel without burden or destination…

The disquiet man, Fernando Pessoa

pianist kok jockey

Lyden fra et klaver.
Pianistens fingre
mærker lufttrykkene
fra de nedadgående tangenter.
Duften af et måltid.
Kokken mærker
håndleddet værke
af den hidsige pisken.
Vrinsk fra en hest.
Jockeyen mærker
den varme flanke der hæver
og sænker sig.
Tanker om en savnet, elsket.
Et menneske mærker
salt dunet overlæbe