စိတ်ထဲရှိသမျှ

Portrait Bernard Noël- 1930 où est la lettre? cette question vient d’un mourant puis il se tait tant qu’un homme vit il n’a pas besoin de compter sa langue quand un homme meurt il doit rendre son alphabet de chaque mort nous attendons le secret de la vie le dernier souffle emporte la lettre manquante elle s’envole derrière le visage elle se cache au milieu du nom

Dear Lilly, I do not know what I will say in this letter. Maybe I won't say anything. I am very depressed. All I want to do is sleep or cry and the only thing that keeps me from giving in is that more than anything. So instead of sleeping my day away, I write. Poems, stray thoughts in my journal, and, of course, letters. Sometimes I mail them, like this one to you, and sometimes they are just letters to myself. Sometimes it’s stuff that I don't even know I am going to write like it's coming from someone else's mind but it's in my handwriting.