The vacuous emptiness in the air fills the light with a certain warmth and an uncertain passion, whilst the room remains sacred and profaned by the ghosts of different wayfarers, conquerors landing from a time no too long bygone. The springly sun unconceals their shades and their entanglements with themselves, yet altogether hides their laughter and their lying whispers, their lying slumber so that it becomes elusive to me. In the chiaroscuro of hours the memory remains stale and stiff as though it were a painting that biffurcates inside the time, undrunken boats sail in my direction and repose in my lap, that in the noisy procrastination reminisces of the shores... there're no voices to be outreached in this angry calm in a fashion such that stories write themselves anew without characters and the storm is too weary to come visit, pedestrians appear in the rush hour and run forth behing their own shades trying to grasp in a moment of hollow the sticky path of a road that unmarkedly leads nowhere, only the no-return points are signaled, but yet with chairs that crave to be occupied, to be entangled in conversations never had, imagining the presence of old beloved ones, or a young woman writing letters that should never be delivered.
Everything turns into wonder, the ownerless houses and the street, everything is prepared for the Advent, a feast turns into abandonment, into the sight from Dominus Flevit. But there are no people congregating, they have been sifted through the world's pressure, through the jealous intimacy of death with the healthiest of lives, there's no possible expectation. The assurance of the possibility, the knowledgeability, the security, they all forsake an instance of realization with a little roaring, in the presence of God. For once at all we no longer hope, the time has vanished with dusk and every station of solitude is the only available fleeting space, there're no places to stand. Love lingers about with a chastizing silence, with the most obvious betrayal of oneself and the others, strip of devotion or else of any responsibilities. It remains aloof in old letters that cannot be glimpsed into again, lest one were to acknowledge the murderous axe. All entanglements come from Europe at times, and they leave as easily as they arrive, there's no fare-well, one lives from one day to the next. The time has stopped, the distancing grows beautier and kinder, so does oblivion in the case of erotic disappointment, but there're just too many other forms of disappointments as to bespeak oneself for the only one for which no one would dare argue in favour of.