disappointment is raw sky before it paints its face innocent blue, where the blackness sears your eyes, a fire that you cannot see or put out, where you grasp the stars so you will not fall, how many points do they have? why do they gash and cut my palm, leaking blood that will not leave the body? disappointment is seeing the moon strung from hooks with steel cables, a falsehood made of recycled dreams, how many hopes were pinned on a piece of dented aluminium glitter? in the back streets of the city where the asphalt and trees have a washed out mediocrity, the crows look tired and ashen and the cats are mangy, as if they would rather starve than eat the tasteless gutter rats, from there to the top of the mountain is a million steps, the only way to rise is to cut strips of yourself, unburden yourself of yourself as you go, and yet tonight, reaching the top, flat and empty, my head half buried in the undressed sky, seeing reality lie after lie, was it all for nothing? but wait, you can prise out sunbeams buried in the dirt and slide down to where you began, but there is a question, a ticket clerk at a half window, bespectacled, asking you who you are, apparently there is a right answer to exit purgatory and go back to the beginning, to the foot of the mountain that you cannot climb without ridding yourself of yourself. I told him I was everything I wasn’t, I wasn’t anything I was, and found myself back where I started, the mountain of doubt ahead of me, with nothing to give up that was or wasn’t, unable to separate myself from myself, to journey to hell again.