I used to write.
I used to live.
I used to love and be loved.
I used to breathe air in a country I loved in a City I belonged to.
I used to have a home.
I used to have a guitar and books and a window that opened wide onto a street that smelt of eucalyptus trees and salt air.
I used to want to write.
I used to want to live.
I used to want to love and be loved.
I used to want to want.
Now I want nothing.
Now nothing wants me.
I might go to Nothing, after all it is where a Nobody like me belongs.
I used to
I used
to
use
us.