.

You’re always sitting in the back of my head,

Like a small but nevertheless annoying,

Invisible-at-first-glance bacteria.

If I took a microscope and tried

To understand what the hell is going on,

I’d see you—and many copies of you—on my body,

As if you’d organized some ridiculous kind of occupation,

Some tiny little criminal activity on the back of your own Earth.

You are, unfortunately, yet too small to see who I really am.

From your narrow perspective, it’s just a territory,

It’s just a skin that might be endless or might end.

You have no idea—and don’t even want to have one.

The number of your comic copies reaches ×10

The number of my very own pitiful cells.

In the end, with all those paltry cells, I am one.

You are only one, in the end, with all your bacteria.

We are one, in the end, you and I, with our paltry perceptions.

Partly, I disagree with reality—and the part is huge.

Your silly role is not perfectly clear to anyone.

So I see how faultless this time is for you to fuck off

From the unlimited and unending

World of mine.

Colmar

2022