My mind is space that’s overfilled with things,
with piles of memories, with bulky heaps of wows,
of my emotions that every minute brings.
My mind’s not more than sort of warehouse.
My love life stories, scary fairy tales…
I leave no one; I’m only able to grab it.
I recollect meticulous details,
I gather them I think just out of habit.
My tales are bad; they all have no plot;
my dreams are junk; my mind is full of lumber.
I will explode soon; I’m sure; so what?
I’ll hoard some more – and in a greater number.