I walk around the voided saloon
peeping the puppet museum for life
in vain: there's nothing but wood and time in here

everything is but what it seems –
abortions of being
(negative expectations)

I look around, wondering:
these puppets can play Greek, Shakespearean tragedies;
yet they hang still, waiting attentively... why?

I look for the exit
without conviction
under the opaque eyes of the wooden troupes

I wander in circles to the sound of my uncertain steps
each movement seems more and more
and more absurd in here

time itself begins to gain
a wood-like substance
unlike our rotting corpses

i feel my strange body afloat –
the threads linking me to existence
suddenly shine against the still air in the room...