They look into their phones as if into a mirror
searching through names and numbers
for the tepid sludge of a deep well
Their world is held by the thin thread
of the illusionary present which doesn’t explain
the fact that their skin is still skin today
It all remains within the gaze’s reach
brief fictitiousness which reduces life
to the minor plot of the missed calls
of the messages received or not
causing the day’s building to sway
They feed on this and pretend they see
solely themselves while the world drains
into the well as swift as the day