I met a pain and sadness in the only way one truly learn some things, from the flesh. To my sobs the death rattles followed him, and to the death rattles these hoarse screams of the beasts that weren’t created for the solace. Then the punches until I break the whole skin of my knuckles and from my forehead against the walls of the corridor. And cry up to the panting, to the point in which the snots are mixed with the tears, and the gullet suffocates and there’s no position that relieves the weight of the anvil on the chest.
The wound was still new, and it was threatening to become infected, when you spit on my eyes that rest of rancor that it fed and it was feeding your belly. All slender, made up of an affront that you never knew and of which you were making me responsible, you vomited on my name and my word the nonexistent patience of which you were becoming indisputable sovereign. I didn’t even blink. The procession, the surprise, the disgust and the pity happened inside, in a scandal of continuous impotence, as if the pain at once personalizes, and once turned entity, he had decided to try of what my sinews were made.
Being able —and perhaps having to— have raised my hand, I abstained from doing it. My politics, already from decades ago, has always been of not intervention. They all have, as I have marked it to you, as it hurt you very much that I marked, the sacred right to decide to be unhappy. To though in face my errors repeatedly —and repeatedly— neither will make you happy, nor will cover your failures. To believe that I am the only one to blame, it will make you unhappy —if it was like that everything would be simple—. For my part: will I be again a flame-thrower?