The Poverty of SelfYou live these mornings alone and nothingcan be forgotten, you drink the lastbit of fresh air from the roombeside the window, tell the strange caton your lap to get out. Its too hardto be empty with no one to love, onlyslightly concerned about the light rain,more concerned with nightmaresyou walk alone on dead carpet, wondering,if you will ever see the sun.does the world out there revolve around mirrorsthat reflect the cracks? centering the thoughtsyou found in the back of your conscious, people seem furtheraway and you can never find the place to fit inat all. so you open up the window widefor a glance, find the city bustling about and jumpout. This is all but a dream.