I lick a stone. The pores of my tongue match the pores of the stone. My tongue dries up and travels to the other side of the stone that touches the soil and has some mold glued on it like blood. Suddenly my tongue becomes moist again it moistens the stone which slides in my mouth.

I call this stone Oedipus, because like Oedipus the stone is irregular with deep gouges in the eyes. It too tumbles with swollen ankles. When it stays still it hides under it a fate, a serpent, my forgotten self.

I call this stone Oedipus because it has no meaning on its own it has the shape and weight of the choice.

So I name it and I lick it

until the end of my story

until I understand what choice means

until I understand what end means