Apalling days, shallow days, constipated days, constrained days, uncommenced days, particular days, frozen music, the days....
... Abandoned to the days of my youth, in the fields.. of my mind... there I begin with this note, that's where it all ends, almost blind, drunken in my boat... once again and as it always was, sinking into the oceans of the dark nights in smoke, sinking into my endlessness, into my unfinished chapters of unbeing, into my historicisims of ontologies, into my non-existant books, grammatically inaccurate.
Very different days pulled the first of these notes, the "Agaetis Byrjun" series, some Nordic procrastination, surrounded by the Styggia manifold, in my conspicuous ignorance, in my abandonement to myself, in the epos of untold stories, in the awakening of beginnings past the end.
I embrace myself in the sleepness of my magic characters, in the hues of my imagination, looking at the world in grey-hued blacks and Blues, specially Blues. Once again the winter starts to surround us with yellowing whites and envelops the air with the softening madness of solitude, the self-chosen solitude, the unravelled space for the thinker, the immediate thoughtfulness, in throughness.
Agaetis Byrjun is probably an ode to wisdom, an ode to scholarly knowledge and leaves falling down the trees containing the "sapientia magna" of those great men and women of the antiquity, those were the days... those were the days... when we ran just free, from whence we return... "sejour" and "retour".
I wouldn't like to make of it a note full of corrected sense, of politically correct and moral sense, without moral observations, without foresight... it's a simple note, like those notes written over the table of a bar in a labelled napkin, a note that contains love stories, a note in the companion of Eros, a note in behalf of Phoebus, once the rain has dissipated and the thunders are clear, for those were the days... those were the days.
I don't pretend to give up on my endless writings, but I'm just having some time off to think whether it's all somehow worthwhile, if there's an encore, if there's anything to an encore. My language is artificial and thus are the echoes of my soul, without definitions and without frames, edging through the ends with faltering hesitations, with fears and procrastinations, with confused fragments of thought, national ideas, forlorn... all forlorn. Standing on an axe from where there's no day afterwards, some kind of historical endlessness, the fatus of man, the devil of man. That's me, a ultimate man.
Let me hold myself in upheaval, for death from a far smells too close.