Godot

To J.

I

Everything seems right in the world, if just for a moment, biffurcating into the night and yet it's still at the peak of the day hours, more like aurora. These seems to be time ahead to fulfill all the hours, almost as if there were no time at all, with the sole exception of the tiredness, hovering to heavily, like a wet feather over the palm of the hand; the same sense of admiration, yet so exasperated. The hours blend in, like transparent blocks. In spite of the eyelids, treacherous as always, underslept, the skin stares into the sun, for the first time in many a week, vehemently, wishing to be consumed, to be coveted, as if by a warm burning fog. The time also plays a role in the consumption, the waiting becomes so patient as if it were no waiting or procrastinating at all but merely another essential form of being, whilst at the same time, the pulsations of the hand, the desires of the ear, speak so differently, they've become completely consumed and consumated and burnt down, the freshness has been swallowed, in the course of the hours that did pass, even unto death, and death as such is impatient, being too tained by the still quiet, or rather the fear thereof.

II

The calm is nowhere near approaching, but the storm recedes back while water's still being washed, further and further away, like stains in the sand, stains of oil perhaps. The sight is magical, twisted, nothing is visible, everything is essential, the crucial colors are absent, undecipherable, starved from lust, the slowest fire and traces of Godot made with a flambeau in the cleanest snow; they melt more rapidly than they're visible, it would be perhaps timelier to shipwreck. !If only this death of suger would reveal itself sooner! I look at the whole world from outside, it appear much less chaotic and threatening than I had once felt, just two lines above, all I see is the table, without cloth but immaculate white, unblemished, only tarnished by the cubes of sugar, helplessly unused, and unorderly the sheets of paper, clean from blame, but not from sin, like the chest of a man in his bravest youth, invisible to the armpits, without this curious stench of parfum, forehead sweat and tar. The image is so entirely harmless, like a beggar or a lonely woman in the masterhand of Pisarro; they're held momentarily and into infinity and without telling their story, lest they ruin the indiscretion in the work of art, the very vows of sacrality in this rape, Dina and Daphne, disfigured, transmogrify into black rain.

III

The time vanished so swiftly, stole away from the knife, suddenly the suffocation stops at the height of the lips and protracts down to the smallest toe; how it's still sunny, yet sweetly melancholy and cloudy, that I don't know, it was like a vision.