I’m Reading! I Don’t Want

How Well I Would Write If I Were Not Here!

Every Time I Must Find Something To Do That Will Look Like Something A Little Beyond My Capabilities.

Cities, Like Dreams, Are Made Of Desires And Fears, Even If The Thread Of Their Discourse Is Secret, Their Rules Are Absurd, Their Perspectives Deceitful, And Everything Conceals Something Else.

Perhaps Everything Lies In Knowing What Words To Speak, What Actions To Perform, And In What Order And Rhythm; Or Else Someone's Gaze, Answer, Gesture Is Enough; It Is Enough For Someone To Do Something For The Sheer Pleasure Of Doing It, And For His Pleasure To Become The Pleasure Of Others: At That Moment, All Spaces Change, All Heights, Distances; The City Is Transfigured, Becomes Crystalline, Transparent As A Dragonfly.

It Was The Hour In Which Objects Lose The Consistency Of Shadow That Accompanies Them During The Night And Gradually Reacquire Colors, But Seem To Cross Meanwhile An Uncertain Limbo, Faintly Touched, Just Breathed On By Light; The Hour In Which One Is Least Certain Of The World's Existence.