Well some few minutes for silence... for some kind of selective silence, which is more of a kindred noise... some melodic and melancholic song... some wordless song.... this is my fit tonight, like a post-war song... in the end of the day I'm the post-war hero tonight.... the post-war hero... the post-end hero.....
I really feel less at odds with myself, the change to Tel Aviv did bring something actually... I don't know it's like some kind of security that you're safe in your denial of life, that your bubble is well protected, that you're not alone in your glasshouse and that you actually can live in one. Not sure if I'm allowed to live in mine yet, for so many jungles I haven't seen... and don't really know if I'm living some kind of life or simply teasing fate.
Fate and me closed a deal, or actually it was not fate and me... it was the wife the the journalist and fate... and when they sat together and talked I simply wasn't home... I was too busy inside myself, curdled up into myself.... The wife of the journalist and fate halted their quarrels and their arguments... for some time I guess.
Just as the song goes "You can love me until tomorrow, until you may want to go... for you can always forsake, you can always forget".. that's the kind of deal fate and the wife closed, an airport deal... that kind of non-verbal agreements you close by looking into someone, by feeling his breath, even by staring at his clouds of smoke. The wife of the journalist ain't no Antigone, the wife of the journalist is more of an Elliot, less of a tragic and more of a novelist. And even when Ofer stares at Ari and sees through his clouds and most profound thoughtlessness... even there the wife is much more of a novelist... because the wife of the journalist and Ari.... seem to have come to terms.
With or without journalist, they've come to terms.... And maybe Elliot, Elliot can understand. Probably also Zelma would. And why not, Ofer?
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