I opened my squeaky windows to a still green, yet ailing grass, to a quiet wind and an empty lane. The corpse of my vegetarian mosquito friend rests weightless in a dark corner of my room and there's nothing I can do about that or about the thin, long spider meandering through natural scenery, engulfed in hatred and denial.
So I pick up the brushes and the paints to ivy-league my room and make the day pass. Another revolution and another excuse to avoid pain. For now.
Now's the moment to visit the crippled and the old. She seats me next to her, on the bed, caresses my hair with her trembling hands and whispers " So I see, you've finally convinced yourself that your hair does look better with a diagonal parting. I told you so"Her son just died and in order to pass the day she fabricates his day. He's alive in his old house with the wife and masseuse and he does not pick up the phone for he is in the garden, admiring the Nicotiana affinis. And she cannot cry. She talks of Paris and Rome and Vienna. And the glamor of the cities fades away and the vowels roll on her tongue as she pushes her beloved dead through the gates of the capitals.
