It suddenly struck him, buried as he was under the hundred pages of the article, that all this would come to nothing... The crushing complexity of it, all the intellectual efforts which had nearly drove him into madness and depression didn�t matter much. A year of research and organizing, of careful unravelling of ideas from the original ball of chaos would equal to a single grade in a registry. A step akin to another on M�bius staircase, directions all nonsense on the infinity symbol. Had he been able to backtrack, from post-teenage hood to the original freshness of the most basic writing he would have seen but a locked door, a flashing �Exit?� sign tantalising and yet so mocking, and the nervous feeling that he had forgot the key.

His head resting on his hand was facing the screen. Mind was absorbed into the feeling of his own pulse relentlessly banging on his ear as if trying to convey some vital message in Morse code, some telegram carried from its inner self bypassing the mainstream nervous system to find an alternative voice, another form of body control. The lines were dead though, the eyes blank and vitrified, surveillance cameras pointing to evidences when the watchmen is asleep. Nobody home.

What self esteem can one gather from rehashing information.? What faith can drive one into thinking analysis as creation, as something worthy of being endlessly transported on the roads to knowledge�s wasteland? It was all but bending the self to life�s oh so thin line, downgrading will to a convenient form of black and white decisions, the binary beauty of self-forsakenness. Something has to be done says the revolutionary. Something will be done says the leader. Something has been done says the historian. All this done in waste says the poet. And the poetry of regrets unfortunately had more than its fair share of practising.

Awareness comes from the sky. An endearing epiphany seen by only one, piercing the clouds of questioning in slow motion. You can gaze at it for hours as its shape and contours grow increasingly clear, soul�s lenses on auto focus. And you know it�s coming for you. But on the very last moment of its descent, as the white noise of human voices melts with the roar of the comet, you willingly take one step aside. After the crash it seems so small, half-buried in the ground... So you walk away.

Somehow in this town there was life agitating. Through the window from the 15th floor particles were interacting down in the streets. As the microscope grows more powerful it finds another whole, and the snowball effect ensues, the vision moving on to something smaller forgetting the bigger and vice-versa. On the pages letters were ordered so as to create phrases that creates paragraphs that creates chapters but no end ever comes. He figured each person on the street had its own letter, charting people following their occupations, moods and physical aspect, the round generosity of an O, the angular aggressiveness of an Z... And so was the poetry of life, with its hobos and beggars filling the blankness that surrounded the text, waiting in the gutters for some author to grant them meaning.

He needed to be part of it. He had to go down and find what was his own letter, impregnates himself with the style and syntax of life�s author to finally feel some whole. Something had to be done. He left the building, revolutionary.

Anytime anyplace the sky changes colours. Eyes mid-closed he stared at the sun until blots were dancing in the foreground, vision now ruined footage. He sat on the pavement, not knowing where to begin, as the blots kept swarming directionless. Streams of people were passing by, entering shops and buildings, suddenly stopping to check something in the windows, to ask for a cigarette, rushing to catch some hypothetical train, plane, cab, to be on time, to be less late. He saw everything from under. All he could catch was children�s looks, furtive and fluttering, in contradiction to the hands that pulled them tightly into the future. The underworld was so close to us, a single meter down. The sea was over his head, moving, fluctuating, and he was stuck to the greyest sky among greasy clouds and broken planes made of paper. Far over his head was his lost Atlantis.