A piripitiflautic battle in Turdera

White vipers like salchichones primavera "Los Calvos" in the night appeared, I remember it well:

we fought 'em back; spade, spear and horseofwar

I wondered how these ophidians were not Catholic.


The battle turned into a downright bloodbath which ended suddenly when the last snake had its genitals burned and ceased to exist:

all the hollow bodies of the reptilians -void and concavous like empty packs of bizcochos Canale- vanished in the analphabet air of the nighte:


once this formidable feat was accomplished, we returned to Remedios de Escalada in bondi, as far as I remember, driven by Ricardo Zunino.

La fall

Dreams and dreams and dreams for Nativa Melásquez have not yielded better horizons for her nights in-to the pluvial jungles of Manila:

Everything started going down -they say- one heated night of any year, when El Cabezón arrived in her hottest nightmare, bringing her to an almost-virtual realiti through the febrile and roasting calenture of her vajina.

In her tribulation, or purgatory, Nativa Melásquez experiences once and eternally her own deglutition:

In brutal aerophagia, El Cabezón slurps the whole body of Nativa, making her vulva get incrusted in his incisors with the frenzied ardor of her cavernous tissues, as his jaws gnaw, shatter and swallow the pulsatile and soaked meatflesh in the enormousness of the interminable horgasm.



And it happens every night, in perpetual sequence in-to the pluvial jungles of Manila

where the unknown eyelash grows.

A novelist from French Guiana

The days of Otard Dupuy passed by like clouds, greenish clouds over Cayenne: his days... just were a compendium of pages and pages where the fiction gave birth to his own life as a novelist... A fictitious life as a novelist his life lived through fictitious lives was his life as a novelist fictitious.

Cayenne.

Say goodbye.

Say hello.


His books were published and sold by a minimal store Livres Brésil, located in rue P****: novels, sick novels, irrational novels... novels, novels.


Believe me, the days of Otard Dupuy went by among yellow tropical papers in his green flat located in the centre of the town: the overwhelming heat and the poverty seen on the streets oppressed him, tortured him day by day since his childhood... his parents, did he know them? 

They were like the vampires of Paramaribo guiding their flight in the dark by means of high frequency screeching yells.

And his sleep acquired the pastel as its predominant tincture... as the sleep crosses through the electricity of a brain, its images its wheres and its whos, but never its whens.


Amen.

Goodnight.

Your novelist wrote twisted novels, green novels in his green flat in Cayenne, whose... third floor was illuminated with a green light, proper of the torrid countries.
Every day Otard Dupuy passed by that corridor of his floor, green corridor of his third floor that smelled like Nescafé Dolca. 

Who lived behind the other doors of the floor? The other three, green doors of that floor.

Who? Who, who! 

WHO.


In 199... he flew to Paris, anguished, a direct flight Cayenne-Paris, papers in his suitcase
yellow papers green lights in the corridor of the trans-oceanic plane.
A plane to Paris, to Europe; like a direct tube to another reality, anguished.


On the other side of the continental mirror everything was summer solstice on the streets
an European heat, a different kind of canicule, normalized.

But, in spite of this, the color of the life was the same steely-invisible that we see everyday, and the weight of the wind was the same weight of Cayenne, or Guanabara.

And the dogs searched for the evaporated water of May.

Why Otard Dupuy journeyed, he never knew. Was he afraid?

He rented a small room at the end of Rue de Madrid for some few Francs... from the greasy window pane, Otard Dupuy could observe the pedestrian transit on Rue de Londres toward the Place de l'Europe.

The undistinguished and quotidian pace of the crowd going nowhere fast - not fast enough



they're not going fast enough

was he afraid?

Let's take a walk through the unexpected world-weariness, that wide horizon of the pristine and sad unused things.


After certain confusing occurrence -which took place on the Boulevard des Italiens at 2.55 PM- Dupuy started redacting an outlandish novella, whose storyline flowed unstoppably in his brain hour after hour; the preface said:

"Maybe, the structures that they created for us are dead legends that pretend righteousness as they block destinies
-hiding their deformity from our eyes, stupid
maybe everything will be known in the end. Perhaps.

Burns, your justice burns, bur(de)n your dreams burn
burns the time... burns
-hiding this deformity from our eyes. 

Stupid."

Because hour by hour Otard Dupuy wrote under the smooth bronze ceiling of his room
and each word delineated on the yellow paper by the green ink had a precise and specific meaning.

And fat drops of sweat fell from his shining forehead on the hand that wrote as his eyelids blinked with the nervousness of the hermit in hypnotic stupor.

And on the sidewalks the undistinguished and quotidian pace of the crowd went nowhere fast - not fast enough.

The register says that the novelist embarked his fate on a return flight one day
because so it was memorialized on the files, a return; a night flight toward a Creole world. 

And the machine of Air France departed... farther, farther, farther as every segment of the sun was hiding its circumference behind the planetary flatness:

was it all a dream?

A dream of fragile ashes, like the Christ dancing among venomous vipers on the hill.

The days of Otard Dupuy passed by like clouds, greenish clouds over Cayenne: his days... just a compendium of pages and pages in where the fictions gave birth to his own life: a novelist.

And his sleep acquired the pastel as its predominant tincture... as the sleep crosses through the electricity of a brain: its images its wheres and its whos, but never its whens.



But... who lived behind the other doors of the floor? 

The other three green doors of this floor.

Periodical re-appearances of Mascotita

Mascotita died one sunny midday and Lora Ingalls stayed sad at her wooden cottage in Palo Alto, because all the middays are sunny in Palo Alto:

every nighte, Lora had abysmal dreams of persecution and fear(s):

Mascotita returned

dis-appeared.



Lora Ingalls suffered a strange disease called the fevers, and she dreamed of infamies and evil men
and the silvery carbuncle was present on every night mare:

without words, Mascotita asked her what she feared, and she insisted in nasty images of descensum and the abominable

without words, Mascotita presented hishers pinkypinky bodily illumination

and somenights Lora Ingalls took himher for a vvampire.




"This is forever", Mascotita said, talking mentally to the dura mater of Lora Ingalls:


 on the auroral sky of the dawn, the first sun rays started cumming the untouchable semen.

A dead 1969 dream for Juan Carlos Rousselot

Those cosmoses were un-approachable: the distance, I mean, it was as blue as it was televised, for Juan Carlos Rousselot.

Because the piribitiflautic washing machine of space swirled every night, as his arm got stretched under the moonlight mileage.

I degusted a yoghurt while admired the Carlsagan-esque extension, and I laughed out loud, and I died, and I was born again, and I was machista, and feminista, and I was no-thing, and I watched again through the screen and saw Rousselot disappearing at the matinal powder of angel, and the dawn back pedaled and turned into noche over my head, and I cried all that night long, and your rear window saw this, and you credited it to me as righteousness.

[intercalation to] Erysichthon the bird-man who ate himself

El mystery of Aron Cimmermann "The Jew of Gold"

Aron Berenjenal Cimmermann (Grapa, Conn? 1961?) was born in the bosom of a musical family: his mother played the eggs.

At the age of 29 he formed an alternative rock combo called The Phosphorescent Tentempié, where he sang outré Genetic Simmonsex and Juan Ramón covers, with limited success in Conn, Mass, and depopulated areas of Mex.

Every show ended with a grunge version of "El Tío Calambres" during which the guitarist simulated the destruction of his expensive Fender Stratocaster...

... one day, though, after a heavy ingestion of pastillas Valda, the simulacre went too far, and the guitarist -actually- shattered the guitar in pieces, and totally out of control in heavy metal trance, bathed his amplifiers with gasoline and threw a match aka cerilla until everything caught fire, even himself, passing away carbonized live on stage, in front of the astonished stare of the audience (8 people).

After this tragedy Aron Cimmermann disbanded The Phosphorescent Tentempié, changed his name to Alfredo Casero, and recorded a demo vinyl 12'' in 1 day: "Alma de camión", which was sent to several radio stations

the execrable sound quality of the recordings prevented any DJ from playing this mini album, which passed by unnoticed, being sold today on eBay in atrocious prices that escalate to the friolera of 9,000 €.


Cimmermann -now renamed Casero- tried to convince his backing band, the Kerosene Light Orchestra to stay with him, to no avail, because everybody escaped to dedicate their efforts to more remunerative musical activities, like playing banjo on the street as buskers.

Decided to reach an obscene success in the show business, Casero renamed himself as Cimmermann again, and sent 11,700 demos to RCA Victor Sociedad Anónima in the course of nine years, until a manager of the company -probably fed up and desperate- replied to his request, with the following fax:


"My esteemed Aron Sinnerman [sic], we have studied the copious amount of demo tapes, demo mp3's, demo 12''s, demo 8-track cartridges, demo CDs, demo acetates, demo VHSs, demo DVDs, demo Windows Media Audio's, demo reel-to-reel's and demo ogg vorbis's that you sent us, and I'm pleased to announce your imminent debú [sic] as professional singer of international pop "hits" for our excessively prestigious company.
In order to sign a very leonine contract with us and begin the recording sessions, please come to our professional studios, Paco Clavel Street Nº 5, the day 6 of February at 8:00:00:00 PM (punctual), with a professional microphone.

Al Proctor. 
CEO and general manager of RCA Victor Sociedá [sic] Anónima."



Re-baptized this time as Aron Cimmermann "The Jew of Gold", the artist interpreted a tecno-pop cover of the Eurotrash song "Vamos a la playa", whose hit-singel reached the top 8 in Germany, Sweden, Switzerland, Norway, Finland, NeitherLands, Austria and other countries where the people eat potatos galore and speak with their mouths shut... but when the gates of the éxito seemed to welcome Aron Cimmermann with its auric sheets wide open, something strange and atrocious happened:

during an ignited version of "Break It All" at the Riobamba pub, the overpowering feedback or cámara emitted by the speakers created a sort of aural void on the stage, authentical fellatio of decibels that started sucking the body of Cimmermann, making it float in the aïr toward the centre of the fatal vortex... gradually but unavoidably, centimeter to centimeter Aron Cimmermann The Jew of Gold was gravitating closer and closer to the atrocious black hole of noise that awaited for him to devour his flesh, like a giant mouth in the night, but... suddenly, now!

Now?

Now?

Now?

NOW - as if a giant HAND would stop his floating trajectory, the body of the desperate Cimmermann was seen by the stupefied audience detained in the air for a second, fixed motionless in horizontal position, like a dervish who sleeps in levitation




the backing band thought that it was un truc scénique, and kept playing louder and louder in the exact second when Aron Cimmermann The Jew of Gold was -literally- ingested by the ball of noise, disappearing into the lungs of an exponential Peavey amplifier forever.




































1 second later Aron Cimmermann wakes up in his new dimension, where he is a corrupt policewoman in Burzaco.







This story ends here?

Agathocles teacher of the Daimons, didacta

Damn, will you look at the sophist and musicologist standing over the rocky eminence, once for all?
Look at him, because it's the last time you'll see Agathocles teacher of the Daimons, didacta, before his chthonic descent and algebraic reappearance.

At first sight, and under the unambiguous light of the white sun, his toes looked greasy to me, barely hidden by his sandals of rafia, and all things considered, and despite my obnubilated eyes blinked nervous and repeatedly under the solar ardor of Thessaly, I could note the enigmitic company that surrounded his head like the nimbus or corona magnifica of Abraham Judaic in the Heaven of the night, and the halo were his Daimons, forming a multicolor volant radiator or annulus around the head of Agathocles didacta, who didn't pay attention to them, abstracted in his own considerations and mental trigonometries.
And all things considered.

As you can see, and same as most men from the Classical Antiquity, Agathocles homiletic uses his beard as visual adjacency to his un-pompous vocal pedantry

pedantry in the antique sense, of course, because he uses the paidagogia to instruct his Daimons who, reunited in symposia float around him, and simply listen to the words of Agathocles, and they listen enraptured, with honey in their eyes

and they call Agathocles "The Mouth of Platinum". And they are Daimons, furibund gentes from the abysm.

Darn, you didn't look at the sophist and musicologist standing over the rocky eminence and he just jumped off his cliff and burst his cranium on a pentangular headstone or mesa, with all his brains exposed while the Daimons escaped scared off toward their subterranean encrypted Pandemonia.

Heck, fuck, diantres, dash, gosh, pardieu, maldición!


At second sight, and under the unambiguous light of the white sun, his rictus started re-acquiring the rosy tepidness of the vida? It was possible?:
Gradually or in a rush Agathocles teacher of the Daimons, didacta, he starts coming back to life as his brains return to his skull which gets stitched and solidified by means of energumenology while his revivified mouth of metal starts talking in foreign and dead languages like the.



And all this despropósito occurs in demented synchrony with this actualité of ours.






Later - at the hour of the funeral games to honor Automedon where the ephebes suck grapes and anoint their anuses with sugar, cohort of parricidal Demonios are gonna carry Agathocles in litter toward the gates of Corynth - and its streets infested with lions.

The liminal fossa of flesh

... But recluse Billy Corgan ended at his mansion in Glee*********, where he incarcerated himself, after certain event of opprobrium and insupportable shame (Idaho, 2009?)






His misanthropy

that mental trap, sweet like honey.
Atrocious like the pendulum that falls... into the humid and soft pit of the human decay.





























... But dressed with a fetid apron all stained in dry semen, carrying his hernia like a burden Corgan walked through the darkened antechambers, vestibules and horrid subterranean cubicles of the house, which seemed to be called the house of Corgan after some time by the lugareños, who beheld the white and sharp angles of the residence from miles in the brumous distance.





No-one ever knew what happened in those jail cells

no-one ever dared to ponder or wonder about the hours, days... months of Corgan in his vast dominions, which coupled something terrestrial with something celestial, and not little infernal.

... But if the light of reason stopped shining on his head?

If the light of reason stopped shining on your head.


































No light has been seen or even guessed into that unreal womb-home ever since.

1984, a future experience that you will experience

Rural resuscitation

Please attend what I am saying
would you attend my every word?

























After the pataphysical dissertation in the auric hall, whose walls are bathed in a thin sheet of gold, the personage and his shadow walked unapologetically away, toward a retired cabinet full of welcoming calefaction:

the corners of every Petrograd's street only saw hairless dogs barking at the snow flakes, which descended in the air, slow, horrible, covering the sidewalks of December:

how to live?




2. The wooden realms of death

His eyes manifest damnation
thoughts that cannot be fully understood are emitted by his eyeballs, while his stare is fixed on seven pages of dry paper... behind him, from a portrait that decorates a wall, Our Lady of Kazan beholds him:

the man Rasputin turns his back violently from his wooden chair, stands up, and insults the Virgin and her son Jesus Christ with a blasphemy in sibilant Siberian dialect, waiving his genitals in front of the portrait, like an abstruse but true way to demonstrate his faith

his eyes are coals alight his eyes

the Madonna, mother of God, she understands every human language:
her image disappears in front of the blasphemy
and returns

amorous her eyes, maternal, invincible
sharper than a needle in an optical nerve, the desk illuminating:


the man, a Siberian rustic, he cries, as the frame of the portrait shines with the greenness of the jade.


And there are revolvers that probably would respond to the call of his flesh.
Tonight

or any tomorrow's night.




3. My flesh

A certain figurine of the nobility invites the holyman to know the humid fruit of his young wife... a strange rendez-vous in the house of a rich man, a date with destiny:

when they arrive at the manor the wife is not there

the host serves the monk some victuals at his carpeted cellar, and leaves the mystic alone there.
Everything is poisoned with urine and silver nitrate.

The quietist degusts the poisoned pastries and wine as a nimbus crowns his head forming negative ions in the air, like the halogen gloriole of Saint George in London.

Strangely the holyman doesn't die
the venom is ineffective
the dose is ineffectual:

the nobleman returns to the cellar with a gun or pistolette, accompanied by other co-conspirators, everybody shoots on the starets, who falls of the tepid carpet of the alcove with his mouth full of pasteles.


Five more assassins appear at the door, and shoot the psychic over and over again, riddling him with bullets:

Rasputin still respires
the men, alarmed, wrap him with a Persian carpet, tie him like a matambre, and transport the body to the river in a diligence

throw him to the gelid waters.

No more. No more.




4. Hail and farewell to Britain

... Where I am.
Oh Lord, evil men surrounded me in my casket of death, and still I am here... but where am I?

The perversity of theirs runs faster than their shady gasps, Lord! Oh don't release them Lord!
Not in front of me!


... And all this luminosity, and all this falling water; and these all these cold mornings indicate that, somehow, I still exist

somewhere

still. 


































Somehow.





5. A rural resuscitation

Crazyman attacks wizard

-"It turned out to be a nice evening this, Micaela

here

in Chi

Chichester,

Londres, Inglaterra


everything was delicious, and your twat... wait

WAIT

Have you seen what I start seeing?

Did you see that... insane, demented guy attacking that poor wizard who just

who just walked down the street pacifically?


What

what the f

wot... whay

whay the fuck he is doing to him? Do you see that?

That raving lunatic is... hitting the wizard with a salami, are ya seein' that?


Hey you! Leave that wizard alone! You indefatigable cunt!

A voice in the Sun

Sisebut Mackyntach died.










Smoking he died
smoking an opaque white cylinder of paper and black tobacco: Parisiennes


his inert torso stayed rigid on the table of the kitchen, as he was preparing a sandwich: a pebete de salame y queso.


His wife, Volupta Cargill screamed out loud through her nostrils when she entered and saw the motionless body, petrified, pasmado, stiff like a gruyere from 1970.


Exequies were celebrated, in front of such macabre event, and the tenebricose light of Alcántara illumed the coffin, brown and lustrous like the forest of Calais.



A priest or sacerdote pronounced word, and the hexagonal box buried was, or rather than buried: it was slid through a polished tunnel excavated ad hoc.



And everything in the funereal act was sol, frío, faces with scarf, sunglasses:



while the last tip of the abnormal sarcophagus was entering that tunnel, pushed by 16 pale hands to slide on its last voyage into the telluric entrails, a disfigured voïce emanated from the abysmal casket

the casket

































- "Don't inter me yet, not yet... or better yet:

push me! Push me forward into the sepulchre!

Deeper, AA HA HAHA! Entomb me deeper!

Deeper! Oíslo?

Deeper!.. "































More profound!

More!..

Sequencing dream and demographic absorption of the last Emperor of China

Submersed in dark cogitations the Son of the Sky is, reclined on a red and yellow taburete, in the middle of the Hall of Supreme Harmony, one of his bedchambers in Forbidden City:

the walls of palace are made of wood, excellent remedy for the glacial winters of Peking, luxury in the wood, and it shines at the red of the glowing bonfire where eyeless sparrows are roasted in soy sauce.

Although he is six years old, he is not a child, but a monstrosity called The Lord of the 1.000 Years

never could be a child
because he was treated like a god by eunuchs and foreigner servants come from the limits of the Empire, with their un-Chinese faces, in white habitations full of rareness:

the revolution triumphs while the Son of the Sky is reclined
the republic is enthroned while The Lord of the 1.000 Years ruminates

what does he ruminate?

His father-regent is a ghost.
the republican sons breastfed at the flames of the teat of Sun Yat-Sen are ghosts

only the Emperor is real

he is real, and his eunuchs, slaves and teachers to the Son of the Sky

in nights where the eau de cologne runs at the speed of Plaza Constitución.


The republic was brought from the sky, too, celestial and serene
and witnessed by 800 yellow eyes: the 400 Wise Men of the Conciliabule... meanwhile:

the Son of the Sky is still Emperor, by bureaucratic republican edict he cannot be touched, but he doesn't reign, he's just a figurine full of dignity: 
the Chinese Republic allowed him to live on the northern and depopulated zones of Forbidden City, where Chinese dogs dance:

in the nights, late, among semi-rural beasts, the Emperor child goes out to walk through the streets of his country the Chinese Republic.































Years or minutes later the Emperor wakes up into another dream

he is 11 years old, 1917: 
a general whose name gets forgotten in his oneiric vision crushes the republic under his boot and seats him on the throne again

the 400 Wise Men are strangled with their own tongues

2 weeks later the republicans assault Forbidden City and expulse the Son of the Sky:

in his escape, The Lord of the 1.000 Years roams crying at the gates of the Temples of the Earth, Sun and Moon, as he falls asleep

again

the sleep.



The Manchurian sequence of his dream shows him all dressed in an orange gown finely crafted with astral motifs, like the dragón furente

the Manchurian sequence of his dream shows him monarch of the province, under the solar protection of the Empire of Japan:

Amaterasu, goddess of the siriasis and the fast ardors, she would protect his head in the nights of his heliomaniacal sleep

which is this dream.


And under the trigonometrical ceiling of his fictitious palace
which is higher than the evaporated milk on the lotus at noon
and is nigh to the 12 domiciles of the Chinese zodiac
riding his nightmare The Lord of the 1.000 Years is 
seen by himself, through the transparent Belt of Orion


and is not his mirror of illusion -at the age of his quinquennia- yet a physical midheaven?

and is not the Emperor -already- like a man who dreams of serpents?


The return of Mao was supernal, too, in my opinion it was guided by seraphim
because he was on the Earth millennia before he was re-incarnato:  

furious, Chairman Mao degrades the Emperor, sends him to jail, and then exonerates him, and condemns him to live like another Chinese citizen, working for the State under salary.

This is when the last Emperor of China becomes a functionary in a public office

because this is when the Son of the Sky is absorbed by the crowd on the streets of Peking

all dressed in green, shaven his Communist nucha, governmental, administrative, subsectionalist.

Summer of..?

Being myself a school little boy we used to visit family:

my older cousin had a poster on the wall, which I and my younger brother feared a bit, wondering what could that Infernos be?

I used to wonder if the characters in the poster were hellish, how many abominable crimes they committed and how obscure and sordid their lives were.

For some reason I related the image to the Hells and to the blood, and the summer of January or December or February didn't help, either, to imbibe my mind with something else than the sanguine warmth and the canicular dormitories of Hades... when I looked at

the poster?



Of course we were taken by force there, we were too little to decide where to go or where to go not, we just went where the adults said.

Those summers of the early 80s were somehow mystic in our  -still soft- cerebra, while, for the adults of those times, the epoch didn't represent anything mystic or magical at all, just a same continuation of the bland, pedestrian and unremarkable quotidian-ness

we noted how their embittered faces lacked any enthusiasm or interest, how the spiritual fatigue, and a general domestic fastidiousness marked their rictus with the fatal ugliness of the municipal tedium.



Later I knew about the characters of the poster, and later yet I became one of those adults, whose facial features were so curiously sour, dare one say, vinegarish in their acidulated disenchantment but... for some reason, I decided to walk not on those shoes, and I conserved the astonished fever instead of the tedium, the sardonic grimace instead of the defeatist ennui, the ludic and shameless spirit instead of the pathetic apathy.


Instead of that torpor that implores for the sepulchre.

































Being myself a little boy we used to visit family.

This dialogued eternity of Vera and Demee

"On her neck I welcomed the new life with ecstatic tears. It was the first, the only dream... "
(Novalis, "Hymns to the Night")

































VERA. "Born again?"



DEMEE. Yes Vera splendent, "born again", and you knew I was waiting for you.
For you from beyond the...



VERA. Death!



DEMEE. Life.



VERA. Death. 
That spectre behind you and behind me. That ghost that runs behind the life, like her sister, playing like little girls.
I came to comprehend, Demee strange, the world is nothing with out us.

And do you remember, my beloved Demee, how many times we...



DEMEE... Speculated about it. Yes, I remember as if it happened yesterday.
Yesterday in our... 500? 1000 years? 
3000 years, Vera indomitable?
Now we know, and still don't know.

During your absence I maintained myself like that man who is submersed into vegetative coma during which I couldn't... remember your pain, when your tears...



VERA... Wetted you. I still remember when my tears wetted you. Each and every time they did.
And I still remember things that you said and you don't remember but... do you cry now?
Why?



DEMEE... Nevermind, it's just... it just was a lapsus. I'm ok, I am alright

we shouldn't cry in this overwhelmingly lustrous lastingness, in this eminent glory of you and of me and of everyone else

in this heavenly continuum where no God or angel seem to arrive or -ever- exist, Vera, miel of my eyes, my sweet love.

In this celestial persistence for which we weren't...



VERA... Instructed?
Ah, no one taught us how to face this eternal recurrence, this perpetual return of our neverending existence, beautiful Demee.
No one imparted us instructions about it... and how many times we dreamt we...



DEMEE... could live forever. 
One hundred thousand times, Vera. 

One hundred thousand times.



VERA. During your next disappearance I will stay... lost.
Lost again, as I was during your latest absence, until you returned, because, as you see, the animation is perpetual but not...



DEMEE... Not uninterrupted, like our dialog.
Animation that is like fractured poesy, Vera essential.

But we are more important than poesy, we both; copious, insufferable... and I drink a toast to our times of fastidiousness, too, Vera my trance.
A toast in this ins...


VERA... Insurmountably everlasting space of ours? This planet of our existence in which we are linked?
Linked physically, in this Ultra-Schopenhauerian planet.
In this cyclical anti-chronology, Demee, bitter-sweet life of mine; and do you know...


DEMEE... Why?

Because we learned to lose the fear... and how long we've been walking under this repetition, Vera? Under these repeated night skies.
How many millennia, you, and me

and them under this reiteration that is never exactly the same?


VERA. Shut your mouth Demee of flesh, let's go out to the life once again
out of this planetal night... or don't you know by now that the day breaks when you discover it?


Demee.