Yes, I say to him without looking at his face, a face I have never seen and whose owner I say yes, even though the inexorable and near extinction of another face I do know (somewhat less the soul it hides) pushes me to say no, that pushes me to reproach myself that when one finds oneself trapped in certain emotional depths, it is not advisable to take refuge in the heights of the word, and that to speak of what one cannot speak, it is better to remain silent, as, on the other hand, the famous brother of a no less famous one-armed pianist wrote.
After a new creative block working day, I closed my notebook letting out a “What a shit day!” and went to bed without even giving goodnight to the cat. As I felt asleep, a woman, let's say ambisexual, burst into my dream and said: “Because actually Monsieur Duchamp c'est moi. And you? Who damn are you?”. I don't know —I answered— and that, according to you (if it's true who you state you are) would be the same as saying: “I don't believe”. In fact, I don't know neither why or what am I for, nor what am I and which is my place in this dream”.
How many words fit into one word, I asked myself this afternoon, shortly after having read that admirable story by Borges entitled La escritura del dios (The Writing of the God). The question has prompted me to write some reflections on polysemy and the universes of language that do not deserve to be reproduced. (...)
With a book in my hand, I go out onto the balcony of my house early in the morning. I notice that a layer of burning magma covers the sky and a blanket of ash covers the street. Without asking myself any questions, I open the book. All its pages are blank except the last one, where I read the following (...)
To visit the past? To listen to the captive voices in the insane space of the oleanders? To restore the paradise that the autumns have broken? To return to the gardens where the lily proclaimed an immutable principle? What the hell do you intend to achieve with this folly? To defile the sanctuary of an enigma? (...)