Pictures end, truths begin. Words make space for the arrival of silence. The carpets are deep red, not because it is customary but due to practical utility. In here the breath comes before the wave. A great din of high pressure that reminds you of a thunder just like those we once found on the maps and we now gaze at almost frivolously in the horizon.

– But high pressure equals good weather.
– It just conveys a sudden fall.

I don’t know what to tell you. I know I want to tell you something and it is most likely good but, I see, you’re not afraid. And if I am the only one who is afraid, I think I am the only one who doesn’t know. Then maybe it’s the other way around, I’m not sure. I imagine you looking at me almost compassionately and talking about everything I do wrong tenderly. And you do it so well that I believe you and I forget that it is probably because you have run out of mistakes.

– Since you know nothing, why are you troubling yourself?
– I am rehearsing for everyone else’s problems.

Many times I thought that I had desiccated. That our non-linear function had irretrievably suspended and stretched and had turned into an axiom and a law and a neutralization reaction of an era that has no space for more doctrines, for more rules and anhydrous salts. But when my “I think” turns into this clumsy “I know” it is enough that you speak up – not much, just one or two words like those you used to say years back before knowledge and volition turned into 500mg painkillers. When there was still the option of missing your flight or everything. It would be enough to hear your metallic timber turning into soft paisley and brisk warmth, and to recall hands, pockets, shadows, relics of an endless tomorrow. Yes, it only takes your word and everything dies beautiful again.

– You always had the option.
– Always was yesterday.

I don’t hope for anything. I hear people babbling about things being better than we think, pattering about reciprocity and parallelism despite having no clue what they are talking about; and how do I like it when they conclude that everything is so much simpler than it looks. I can’t decide whether they say it like children or like me. I don’t expect anything. I want a lot, all or nothing, yes. But I will always be kind with the time that we are given – it is always little, but that’s not time’s fault. And maybe some day I will find you, and I wish they are right, I wish that it is cold, and I hope to have the time to tell you everything without the crutches of words.

– I will never believe that you have told me everything.
– Surely not as many times as I would have wanted.


No Smoking

The present days have no limits other than the distance separating two tracks. No night would ever change such a course. It might make the red traffic lights seem silver – just that. The present days don’t run in circles. Everything that comes through knows its time and teaches it to the ones that forget to leave. There are no mistakes and no truths. For as much as the tracks have names, the wheels sit parallel to one another. There are no more perilous bridges and as cliché equilibrium there are no breaks either. And that great distance, which you have covered, don’t ever turn it into a ratio because velocity will belie you. It is really nothing grave, really; steam, gasoline, really; aromatic hydrocarbons. The frozen landscapes you see from the window pane are no more blinking images if you come and sit in the front seat next to the driver. Smoking is allowed there and the one-way street illuminates the traces even when you are not looking. Smoking is allowed there and the ticket collectors are bitter chocolate waiters – to each his own. Smoking is allowed there, and the promises are Gordian. You know the kind that cannot be untied, only cut. You know. Though not with our swords; only when we reach the Iron Age will disembarkation ever become possible.