Too many tigers disturb my throat, as the grassland is disturbed by the vibration of the earth, that tremor in the earth that precedes from afar the flash of a lightning bolt projecting the act of its essence. I bare my feet, and with the skin of my chest open beyond measure, I curl up and, for once, without shouting the sordidness that the world exhibits in me, I try that silence that I only reach when neither the one I love nor the one I love is beside me. And I fall, squirting wild tears I fall into despair and drown that none of those I am even tries to contain, explain or say.
I believe in the fall, in which he slits your kneecaps and kneecaps and labels your soul with the weight of the past turned into a cross measuring the spatiality of your shoulders, the dimension of your neck discussing its impossible unreality to its possible deity. I believe in the wound and the offense, in the premeditated wound and, with Engineers, that all Christ has his Judas. In the love of stone, with Nietzsche, in the perfect number, according to Pareto, and in the assonant rhyme according to the idiot in charge. I believe in all the shit the world can offer me without a warning.
Because when you fall, the hand you didn’t expect or the one you forged happens. That which can only be there, next to you, that which stretches you and which you reject as incomprehensible; that which pushes you and which you despise as a minor; and even your own, which you avoid because it is the one who knows where the damage bleeds. By hypertrophy I advance, in futile vanity. With the stubbornness of idiots and the sincerity that only the irreparable beasts of their condition can reflect in their eyes. Because I am also of my names its last name, the number that nobody knows.
Also the light, if I wait long enough. The brilliant touch that explains everything and mocks my doubts makes room for the withering of the possible, and for making me bite the disgust of the possible, for that reason my face, assuming the horror of the known, touches my knuckles dripping down the holes of the world, weighing up how much fury is needed for a calm that those who did not walk the path of boredom and of the earliest disappointment, that make the patient flesh for suicide, or at least their attempt on a Saturday afternoon with no one near.
Everything is going to be alright, Truman. I know it’s going to be okay. I know there’s always an explanation for everything. I know, too, and for example, that I won’t have to explain all this stuff I’m saying, Juliet. So call your wet nurse, she knows more than your mother, your mother, your mother. It’s time to say goodbye to the people. That Romeo is one thing with Mercutio, and quite another without his favorite music. Juliet, how can you stand it when a man cries? Why my dependence, is so open? Why I do not see her while I’m looking at her? Why does that thing I’ve won alone keep looking at me?