the need to know

from outside in

your main self, not available however

dripping blobs of sky

on the screen of my vaio tablet

as I write this now

in a small bistro in the immortal paris

thoughts chased

for the love of void

nowhere to be seen or found or sensed or smelled

here, in paris

longing to self

academically so

enriching life which I haven’t fully learned

I am looking for a soul office

to get them elusive stamps

to affix onto the feelings

sent daily to self

which, alas, come back to me

humbled by the self daemon

of my choice,

signed in red:

“self not found”