De Imitatione Augustini

"Or an inception to my adolescent nightmares"

... It turned out to be, then, that I found myself alone at the melancholy of the afternoon, under that perfect and abysmally blue sky

normalized background for the horizon of exactly square and yellow houses of the city.

No-one ever explained me in my life why I was attracted toward the gates of the village, to trespass and enter, and why the village was surrounded by the nothingness, in that perpetual afternoon [which for me actually seemed to be, and which later I knew it really was: eternal].

And the town seemed to be depopulated and abandoned, and a giant sign could be read at the entrance of that dry and desolate dome:


"De Civitate Dei: Refutationem Vitae ad Consummationem Saeculi."




My steps, which were the same steps as always, advanced through those wooden gates, as my stare fell fixed on the sandy cement of the sidewalk.

I never knew why no-one showed on those narrow lanes while I marched through that solar city, where the air was tepid, and the atmosphere was like the crystal when it is plateado.





High stakes marked the limits of the air in such dehydrated citadel, and red flesh and white mozzarella served as secondary delimitations, as my retines observed and recorded the surrounding area, fulminated by the ozonal transnudens:

the solar hypotenuse fell on my head like a perfect hat from Albion

brusquely the corner of my rectangular eye noted an Arab who appeared on an angle of the scene and disappeared almost instantaneously




the loneliness so vast and its enlarged kilometrage were killing my heart

deep inside a deep joy, the simple joy of being
































of being misunderstood.









And despite I knew I couldn't get out of there, the wheels of tomorrow kept rolling

and despite I knew I couldn't get out of here.