Sometimes One Who Thinks Himself

Seek And Learn To Recognize Who And What, In The Midst Of Inferno, Are Not Inferno, Then Make Them Endure, Give Them Space

Whether There Is Such A Thing As Reality, Of Which The Various Levels Are Only Partial Aspects, Or Whether There Are Only Levels, Is Something That Literature Cannot Decide. Literature Recognizes Rather The *reality Of The Levels.*

The People Who Move Through The Streets Are All Strangers. At Each Encounter, They Imagine A Thousand Things About One Another; Meetings Which Could Take Place Between Them, Conversations, Surprises, Caresses, Bites. But No One Greets Anyone; Eyes Lock For A Second, Then Dart Away, Seeking Other Eyes, Never Stopping...something Runs Among Them, An Exchange Of Glances Like Lines That Connect One Figure With Another And Draw Arrows, Stars, Triangles, Until All Combinations Are Used Up In A Moment, And Other Characters Come On To The Scene.

For The Man Who Thought He Was Man There Is No Salvation.

The City, However, Does Not Tell Its Past, But Contains It Like The Lines Of A Hand