nothing happens in saint p (ongoing project)

who are these people that just open the door and thrive? are they in the room with us? there's no one in my room. the only door I open is out. out to see how distant I can feel while being surrounded by crowds of people who mean nothing to me

I don't even search for doors. my interest is held by shabby walls, garbage on the ground, gull cries, and looking up at windows at night to see whether any of the ceilings are fancy

out to the same three to five places, mostly parks, where I can pet someone's dog, read the same page of a book over and over again, or look up and see how sunlight passes through the leaves, the ones closer to me carrying the shadows of those above

out to the big water of the Neva. sunlight skips across the waves. I cry almost every time I look at it. sometimes the water pulls me out of myself when large waves wash me over up to the waist. my dress is wet. I am here. it is real