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(1)

Between Harlem and the Guggenheim Museum is a 31-minute walk. Between them also are vast expanses of scattered destinies, sorrow, the gigantic leap between a third and a first world, between an urgent need and a necessary luxury.

Between a real body full of years of pus and chains and indignation and an imagination that knows no real balance to straighten the world.

Naively spinning in circles of color and circumventing oppression and chains, but in the end, it is nothing but an invisible ghost.

(2)

At the museum door, I noticed the little leak from my little notebook that had been left ajar in the bag, a tone I had written down when I was at the jazz house an hour ago, and it became a man walking parallel to me.

I realized it by the shape of his nose, I made this nose and this head and that jumping gait and this hum wounded..also fell.

A scream like a broken accordion, a mirror always reflecting someone else's image, a hand with three fingers in the form of lamps, and a woman's face that's originally a poem by Richard Wright, they became whole persons, walking before me to their empty destinies.

That day I remembered I asked you:
⁃ Does the Creator feel sad?

(3)

Others circumvent their distances with sound and image. I cut them off with you with sound and imagination, I always turn off the feature of the image, and recount the details as they came inside, enormous and bouncy, flabby and lame, luscious, tearful, suspicious, blunt, made me laugh, pissed me off, crossed indifferently.

And so without asking me about it twice, you see it inside you, and I pick it up again and you give it your voice.

I get up at 3 in the middle of the night, terrified, to tell you that I got out of bed to see from the huge window of my hotel room, huge bat wings to replace that white wing, which was originally placed in the place of the World Trade Center.

I was crying, my fear was that it was something else leaking from the notebook, it must be the hole. I must have written it down somewhere, I begged your voice to fix it... Did I ask you to come to New York at once?

I don't remember, but I remember that you mentioned that it was eleven in the morning in Baghdad and that there was a butterfly wing that had fallen into your coffee a while ago, so I calmed down...

Then there was a light knock on the door. The man with the wounded hum was; wet, and he wants to go back to refining the hole in his imagination, because he does not know for himself another place to reside.