The thing is, if I think about it, I’ll fall apart. So it’s best not to think about it. To walk around the edges of it and try not to look at it. It will get bigger and bigger and suck me in like a black hole someday, leaving nothing left.
It happens that I go into the tailors’ shops and the movies all shrivelled up, impenetrable, like a felt swan navigating on a water of origin and ash.
The smell of barber shops makes me sob out loud. I want nothing but the repose either of stones or wool, I want to see no more establishments, no more gardens, nor merchandise, nor glasses, nor elevators.
It happens that I am tired of my feet and my nails and my hair and my shadow. It happens that I am tired of being a man.
Just the same it would be delicious to scare a notary with a cut lily or knock a nun stone dead with one blow of an ear. It would be beautiful to go through the streets with a green knife shouting until I died of cold.
I do not want to go on being a root in the dark, hesitating, streched out, shivering with dreams, downwards, in the wet tripe of the earth, soaking it up and thinking, eating every day.
I do not want to be the inheritor of so many misfortunes. I do not want to continue as a root and as a tomb, as a solitary tunnel, as a cellar full of corpses, stiff with cold, dying with pain.
For this reason Monday burns like oil at the sight of me arriving with my jail-face and it howls in passing like a wounded wheel, and its footsteps towards nightfall are filled with hot blood.
And it shoves me along to certain corners, to damp houses, to hospitals where the bones come out of the windows, to certain cobblers’ shops smelling of vinegar, to streets horrendous as crevices.
There are birds the colour of sulphur, and horrible intestines hanging from the doors of the houses which I hate, there are forgotten sets of teeth in a coffee-pot, there are mirrors which should have wept with shame and horror, there are umbrellas all over the place, and poisons, and navels.
I stride along with calm, with eyes, with shoes, with fury, with forgetfulness, I pass, I cross offices and stores full of orthopedic appliances, and courtyards hung with clothes on wires, underpants, towels and shirts which weep slow dirty tears.