When emotions cast the wonder of novelty into turmoil on the shallow waters, sickening and murky of every day life, reason howls from beneath the mulberry bushes and turns its head to the simpler, horizons of analysis, observation and moral judgement. Unable to gather the tempestuous strengths and dizzy spirals of the past amid the thousands of centuries lost beyond all possible rational limit, critical interpretation of the present spins onto the peaks of prevailing, syllogistic abstractions and onto the lies of conformist logic.

And so, oblivious to the call of freedom and passions, powerless, parted, disillusioned, defeated by solitude, forced to love with the only force of desire, the present slips rapidly over the past in sequence, without resting its gaze, without touching a hair, without uttering a word.

Like day, night is out. Like light, darkness is lightened up once more. Like hatred, love is sealed again. Like decimal thought, growing magnitudes ordered into continuous relationships.

Never shall they meet.
Everything that has been. Everything that is.

Alone in the evening, separated, apart, distant, the slow day, set as an arch, soft, curved, in the twilight, with ropes lowered and a quickened pace. Echoes sound of a craftsman's hammer. And in the distance, on the farthest horizon, where the view blurs the tedious lethargy of monotony, talons trace by hand the disconnected shreds of suffered joy and pain, plunging the equilibrium of instincts and shattering the days on the point of returning. The memory of the end on a weary face, the syllogism on pretexts of negative thought, memories of the sickly sweet poison of habits and words, crucified by the ink of hypocrisy, on the lymph of timeless tree trunks, on the fossilised threads of parchment and spores of dust.

The carter rearranges the baskets for the creaking axes of the cabriolet, abandoned amid piles of papers in ruins and volumes of dirty leaves, with curled up fairytales, naked desire, intimidated imagination, passions moistened on impulses, glorified with pure, asexual images of wisdom. Without faith, without love, courtiers from glass palaces tell of flags, feathers, uniforms, swords, sheaths, silks, places and moods, colours of each orator in turn, collective heroes, presidents, royal highnesses, generals, prelates notables and common people after the nocturnal religious hour.

And for the heirs of the deceased present, each with his own sack. On the soft belly of the hand, on the greasy forehead of chance. With braces fastened to trousers and knee-length skirts. So not to miss the call of success, so not to miss the pace and stride.

Limbs freeze, the body stiffens.
But hope is out of sight before sunset with its music of tender, reassuring, incomplete shadows with the conviction of animals.

To carry on again.
Carry on understanding, working, desiring, dreaming and playing, like always, like everyone, everywhere, whether too hot or too cold, or if the fog is still low. Even if fools and orators, clerks and oracles betray the deception of official rationality. Even if long-legged models with yellow hair painted for new fashions remove any doubt and fear of loneliness.

Even if war and peace, nurtured in extermination camps or to the South of any western world and wealth, revered in temples devoted to fortune, and the parasitic intelligence of the elites, cultivated in places of science and cult, belch forth smoke and golden vanities.

Even if the incense of the latest religion on the market, with a darkened sky, pricked clouds and decreased distances between loss and denial, discovers some indifferent god, still prepared to believe.

A young woman went up the last cold cloud of her thoughts. The thunder uncovered her breasts but the day was warm and the butterflies, out of reach, were sleeping in the valley of the silver fish. What was to happen was written on the lips of the small drops of water, the wind's friends. The tears about to be shed were already in the bird of paradise's nest.
All of a sudden, as if announced from a far, everyone felt the sweet warmth of the skin stirring the future.