Again I am inundated with fear at the prospect of writing. It puzzles me to realize what the physical effect of memory is on my fragile body that twitches at the most insignificant spawn. First of all I feel it in my fingers… They set themselves inflexible at stand-still and I can feel then, how my blood becomes all contaminated in the lapse of a minute by this spooky and exasperating feeling – I can feel so literally how the thin air of the fear begins to unfold and spreads through my bones with the same heavy uncanny of love. I see before me that small room; Maria Clara and me unknowingly gazing into the horizontal fence that separated our existence on earth from the void of heavens and Patricia patrolling our entire lives late at night and into the morning drama of cigarettes, showers and packed lunches. The nauseating odor of cleanness and her domineering commands on all the members of the human community at 74-30. I am not sure I will be able to keep going with this discipline of spending all nights awake and wary of the ways of the world and sleeping through the mornings fully concentrated in my writing and in the deadly enterprise of translating the Ark. Every hour steals from me immense chunks of life´s breath without bating or stopping for a moment to contemplate the solemn destruction and irruption stirred by the grammars of lucid conscious story-telling.