A forager once told me that an
attempt is an illusion. Under the roof
of a tent, lands become vast rooms of

solitude, fluttering like the hanging
man in the middle of the square.
When I told my friend what the

forager told me, he said that he’s
bipolar and that an attempt is the
only thing of value that he possesses.

I am a forager, searching alleyway
garbage bags for gold chairs. A chair
is an attempt, a chair’s leg, a limb. He

lights a cigarette and says that it is
his bipolar side that’s smoking it. I
realize that he is addicted to having

addictions. Like the man under the
bridge, twisting yarn into ropes,
throwing them into the river. The

foragers, under the roofs of tents,
mock the closeness of rats in the
metropolis. This is their commentary

on ego. When I inhaled my friend’s
cigarette smoke and I sat on the
couch, I realized that the solitude

that is crushing him is crushing me
too.