Prologue
I think, therefore I oink —
but sometimes even thought is too loud.
Ink is my mirror, and it keeps whispering back.

Body I
“Ya know… sometimes…” I begin,
and the page nods like an old friend.
Sometimes da world is not enough,
sometimes it’s too much —
I exist in that oscillation,
between scarcity and overflow,
between snort and sermon.
Each line I speak curves around my skin
until words become wrinkles of being.

Body II
I’m too much for the world around,
and not enough for its noise.
My way? A spiral of self-quotation.
I try to end the sentence but it loops,
smiling like an old jazz riff,
somewhere between parody and prayer.

DADA-Break
oink… think… ink… O I N K
Ω Ω Ω!
porcina… conditione… confusione.

Closing
I stay in dialogue with myself,
half philosophy, half breath.
Tomorrow, I’ll rewrite the same sentence
and mean it differently again.