I feel safe under construction,
where I resist the time
together with an attic of the house my parents build
before someone else decided to destroy
the rest of their life
and future of my daughter.
I am sitting on the floor
surrounded with massive pieces of furniture
old books, lamps and dust
which do not have value in any currency
but they awaken my senses to build on the atmosphere
that can hosts my melancholy.
I hide there often in trust that
MEMORY LOVES TIME
which makes Tony Hoagland and I
wander if Time loves Memory back?