A clock ticks. I listen to it, and my silence flexes sinuously between the systoles and diastoles that furrow the back of the immortal ether.
Outside, a mixture of voices can barely be heard: sleepy engines, wind chants, leaves and cartons rolling around scratching.
The wispy cogs of the clock are more tenacious tonight and scream their motion like baritones on stage.
I don’t get bored, nor do I sink into enjoyment. At times, without undue difficulty, I even manage not to think, though I immediately realize I am painting that emptiness with the very words stolen from it.
Then, when my ears have grown tired, I gaze to a tiny spot. It is red, made, in turn, by millions of spheres jumping into the void without even greeting relatives.
What light could ever be grasped if nature had been more humane? Oceans of waves, embraced before the journey, lost in themselves like sand among the golden dunes?
What about us? Motionless, breathless, and powerless, staring like demented at the revolt of the last slaves.
A clock ticks. I listen to him.
Now, tell me, where should I look for the soul that was once mine? Under the skin? Or perhaps among the tiny cogwheels biting each other with unconditional lust?
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