Nothing Happened Today. And If Anything Did,

The Pain, Or The Memory Of Pain, That Here Was Literally Sucked Away By Something Nameless Until Only A Void Was Left. The Knowledge That This Question Was Possible: Pain That Turns Finally Into Emptiness. The Knowledge That The Same Equation Applied To Everything, More Or Less.

The Secret Story Is The One We'll Never Know, Although We're Living It From Day To Day, Thinking We're Alive, Thinking We've Got It All Under Control And The Stuff We Overlook Doesn't Matter.

I Kept Having Dreams All Night. I Thought They Were Touching Me With Their Fingers. But Dreams Don't Have Fingers, They Have Fists, So It Must Have Been Scorpions.

For Her, Reading Was Directly Linked To Pleasure, Not To Knowledge Or Enigmas Or Constructions Or Verbal Labyrinths.

But Every Single Damn Thing Matters! Only We Don't Realize. We Just Tell Ourselves That Art Runs On One Track And Life, Our Lives, On Another, And We Don't Realize That's A Lie.