M.

Deliver me, Lord, from imbeciles and cretins.

The searching blackness inside you es que busco La Cara, La Oscura Cara.

You create for yourself a real way of the cross, Hillé.

… and you, you were the tenderness on my bones.

That’s why I speak, speak to exorcise you, that’s why I work with words, also to exorcize myself, that the bitterness of the abysses may cease, that may break in this tide of phonemes, of syllables, that a light may break, exempt of anguish.

Your name is passion.

I wanted to touch your fear, your love, […] to exist in your dream.

Your eyes [...], your jaws, your soul, Victor, all your perdition.

I’m looking at my lungs. They dilate, compress. Everything enters into me.

Take me, Primordial Mother, […] touch the nails of the one who is never named, introduce language and speech into the heart, take my heart, take my affected repugnance too, vomit me, yearnings, stupors, my lipping  vanity, take my sixty years, my vulgar sixty years and a single inhalation.

Nothing penetrates my soul, words stuck to the page and not one freed itself to keep my heart, so many books and nothing in my chest, so many truths and not one in me, the gold of truths where is it? What did I seek for so long? Why did I suffer so for it to have made itself into vital matter? What fire, Hillé, is this, that wells from the illuminated manuscript, leaf through it, go on, touch. Yes se está muriendo, what whimpers my God, I don’t have much time left, many of those who have left are close by, it’s time, living will have been nothing but somber anguish, a black nausea.

I am my own master, I don’t know what darkness is but I accommodate it.

And the soul? The soul is the Earth’s guest, it seeks, it looks into your eyes.