Blade burning fat. Dap plastos de perete
Occidentul mi-a deschis ochii si m-a dat cu capul de pragul de sus.
I came back with a stack of photographs and death in my soul. I was good for a dumb stability for a deep forgetfulness I was wandering through places that are no more.
I see blade burning fat own limits and I see the limits of literature for I have seen Sears Tower and I saw Chicago, in greenish mist, from above, from Sears Tower and on the terrace of a skyscrapers there were two greyhounds running and I told Gabriela, as we drank Coca-Cola, that my life is over. I watched the windows, with Suzuki motorcycles and saw my reflection in them, dirty, anonymous I walked for hours on Konigstrasse among the kids on skateboards.
I was the black-and-white man in a color photograph Kafka among Arcadians.
I saw tall and blue skies, full of the flickering lights of the planes and knew the howl of the four thousand universities. I chatted about postmodernism in Ludwigsburg With Hassan and Bradbury and Gass and Barth and Federman just like the condemned braves his executioner I recorded on my portable recorder the wailing of the blade that severed my head from my body.
I felt like crying seeing the luxury in Monrepos: how is this possible?