IN THE MIDDLE OF MIDNIGHT

Here, you cannot sleep. What remains is the zero degree of writing, the implicit reader: generic presence, in a corner of the room, looking elsewhere. Like Clarice Lispector in A Breath of Life, the author invents another author who invents a character, Chinese boxes of solitude. I remembered when I thought being happy was the worst of all. No doubt it’s easy to be bad when you’re happy. With the dull heart of guards, you have to defend a sand fort from the plague, and the order is to shoot on sight. Happiness is fragile, it does not tolerate the existence of pain, and therefore we end up taking our eyes off the dog’s eyes looking from the side of the road. I wish this cruelty had a price, only out of a sense of justice. What do you want to be? The Shakespearean spectrum. Tomorrow in the battle think of me, and let your sword without edge fall. But I would have to die a lot of times to appear in a dream to all those who have been unjustly cruel to me, and the first death is already complicated. Since I believe in symbols, it is symbolic that V. has appeared now. I have all the respect in the world for his rough suffering, for his open hands without weapons and without gifts. V. has the pain that serves not to hurt, and reminds me that in the light of judgment I am like that too. Orphans of the future, sad farewell animals. I am grateful for all the unfulfilled promises, because each is a promise not betrayed. For once, I see the symbol of innocence inscribed on the air sheet.

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