I'm on my way to the pool. Gather forces to go to the pool and comfort, the first sign of a more orderly life. The path that goes to the pool, once I get it, always facilitates happiness: apart from the physical exercise that will do good to my health, I will shortly be a direct witness to the beauty, in the most complete, human format, and, not necessarily related to the above, I will have the opportunity for literary creation.

I've created most of my poems in the pool because they've occurred to me swimming or because, reciting what I did, I've steered or discarded in the water. In the water, I've always been entertained by the words, until I have been led to believe that they are made by her.

I'm going to go to the pool, because I'm looking forward to writing a poem, because I want a poem to come to me. Literature is also a matter of will. It needs loneliness and despair. There was a time when I had a lot of my loneliness and despair. Now, more addicted to drugs, I have to look for them or imitate them.

I'm going to go to the pool and it started to rain. I kept walking. People enter the shelters or run through the wall as tightly as they can. In any case, with the calm of what needs to be wet, as if I had moved another logic, I do not.

I have come up with a poem in which the protagonist – a first person: I – approaches the pool but on the road it rains. In the middle of the street he stops – perhaps in the first version of the poem, opens his arms, waiting for the hairstyle – and feels that the cleaning he was going to look for has searched and found. He realizes that he no longer has to swim, because nature has provided him with water that he cannot withstand matching swimming pools. She goes home and goes home.

I doubt -- in the rain, as I am, wet -- to turn around, not go home, write that poem. In fact, as a poetic character, the inspiration I'm looking for has found myself. I should write to see if in the end it is worth writing. It also makes me doubt that what the poem suggests is simplicity: giving wild water as better than dominated water, putting the sublime above the beautiful, betraying love to the pools (in part they are gardens or gardens closed).

At the time I arrived at the pool entrance. Now it would be fun to turn around. The poem can always write later. Or forget.

I started plowing water in the swimsuit, in secret grief with the street swimmer next door, but I've already written that poem. In a break between series we agree the two. I have looked at him and – there I finally see the subject of the poem – in the centre of his wet face begins a blister of blood that slides through his nose and on the edge of his mouth, coloring the kiss red. It's handsome. Blood, instead of weakening, looks like a hero. I've known I'm going to offer you a poem. Poetry is the only way to demand ownership of things and people.

I made him observe the hero who was a man who was bleeding abundantly in his nose. She doesn't understand me. I study the possibility of giving in, anticipating the poem that would offer me – blood in the water. I pointed out my nose and yours. What if in my poem, we both had noses bleeding, red kisses?

I have taken the poem too far. Anecdote no longer serves me but to bring it here.