One is compelled to understand that moment which, anyway, occurs over and over and over. Lord, sitting here now, with my boy with a toothache in the bed yonder, asleep, I hope, and me, awake, so far away, cursing the toothache, cursing myself, cursing the fence of pain. 2 Pain is not easy; reduces one to toothaches which may or may not be real, but which are real enough to make one sleep, or wake, or decide that death is easy. 3 It is dreadful to be so violently dispersed. To dare hope for nothing, and yet dare to hope. To know that hoping and not hoping are both criminal endeavours, and, yet, to play one’s cards. 4 If I could tell you anything about myself: if I knew something useful – : if I could ride, master, the storm of the unknown me, well, then, I could prevent the panic of toothaches If I knew something, if I could recover something, well, then, I could kiss the toothache away, and be with my lover, who doesn’t, after all, like toothaches.
