گاهی جا نمی‌گیرد. گاهی حس‌ت آن‌قدر غریب و پیچیده است که به این سادگی‌ها میانِ چند جمله و چند خط جا نمی‌گیرد. برای توضیح دادنِ هر تکه‌اش می‌روی بندِ بعدی بندِ بعدی، اما هنوز درنیامده. درنمی‌آید لعنتی. بی‌‌جهت یاد جست‌وجو می‌افتم، آن‌جای به انتظارِ بوسه‌ی مادر ماندن‌اش. چند صفحه طول کشید؟ چند صفحه گذشت؟

حالا کمی زمان گذشته. شور نوشتن از حسِ غریبم کمی فروکش کرده. دیگر نمی‌نویسم‌اش. نخواهم نوشت هم. اما همین‌جا، میانه‌ی همین نوشته، همان حس عجیب انگار که گیر افتاده باشد توی اتاق تنگِ تعویض لباس یک فروشگاه معمولی، هی سرک می‌کشد از آن بالا، هی روی پنچه‌های پایش می‌ایستد، هی سرمی‌چرخاند یکی ببینَدَش. در را باز نمی‌کنم. گیر می‌مانَد. می‌مانَد همین‌جا، تهِ همین نوشته. همین‌جور غریب و پیچیده.

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