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The ∞, 43

Growl informs. Some run down the stairs in a hubbub unconscious repeated impacts against the concrete. To believe that this does not affect them in the depletion of their conscience. The torrential stream carries everything in its tracks absurd to fresh air, we sully our breaths, and our cigarettes. Cloud. I do not know why all grace is lost. I remember as a child to have had the same impression, but she was gracious. On the gray concrete, it remains lost all grace in this world, surrounded by improperly extinguished cigarette butts, crushed, and chewing gums discolored by time. To say that is all that remains of us down here, these tracks are embedded in concrete, asphalt, our salivary and tires.

past, we went into the impulse of grace, and life is loosened, and resumed its course is smoother and unfolds. Of that there is no question.

We are definitely locked up, who doubts? Or detained in any place I can not pinpoint, and on which it seems that nobody down here does wonders, preferring any certainty the opportunity to focus chewing on a possible persistent chewing gum or the consumption of a glowing cigarette, burning up in a last breath, fragrant exhalation of our despair. This could be the ancient underworld, where we met Ulysses but only as possible, this was nothing more I can not with any certainty, Hell or Limbo ancient later in which the movements of consciousness are less confident, more hesitant. And we are all assembled, with no common point we do connects disparate worlds that its variation grows to the point most absolute solitude.

It seems to me that this idea was given to me, over a steaming bowl of soup and transparent, very far in a Japanese city as rain washed torrentially and sirens as a storm passed through in all directions (only I did not know). I thought this limbo, without suffering and non-credit, lowering his head to my bowl of soup. There was swimming algae and shiny green ribbon folded in on itself in intricate convolutions that my sticks were seeking to seize and unfold, and about what they showed no certainty.

Finally we reach the bottom of the stairs, where our troops are defeated inaccurate in one go, split the night, I never thought the day had gone well, we descended into the morning light, and it is the darkness of the night that we snatch at the bottom of the tower, which we include and where we are in danger of disappearing.

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The ∞, 42

Do t turn around to look. Even if in the hubbub of the crush (all, they escape, all in no particular order, they ascend the hallway to go down further, where the air is breathable again, I think one or the other disappeared behind a yellow door, no windows, they hit some shots, and enter the door on them are closed) you hear about distinct syllables of your name stand out against this background, printing inaccurate, it is still possible not to return. It is possible that all this is that the rumbling sound of footsteps on the stairs of concrete, not of those who are more advanced, who took up appearances sound of its syllables which, as a rule, generally, you and you only answer.

Do not look back, even if used to divert you from your not enrolled in your gestures, although the pattern seems inviolable and inevitable (you hear those syllables on the background of the world, so you don 't immobilized, and you've got used to support the view of that, so, you designate in the flow of the world) but this is not what it is today ... it is indeed that!

You just have to let yourself be carried away by the waves of the river which will bring you out, not hold you, as a reflex tense that this time might well become fatal to the banks of this stream, you have nothing else to do, you carried away by the waves murky and muddy running at fixed intervals, all you need to get off and be carried by the river, and not to make a movement to keep you, not listen to those who spell your name in the world's disorder, and who would hold you.

Do not turn away.

And if you fear still can not, (we can, indeed, consider the uncertainty of self, the intangible force of habit can certainly call into question even the most intense determination, and then this force would to make you inadvertently eye contact that you have to challenge), it is then necessary, by a sudden withdrawal of consciousness in an obscure corner more and more distant still, superimposing layers of artificial distance between the world and you, as it is superimposed possible thicknesses of indifference between the world and you and drag you away from the playlist of your iPod. Under this condition

ultimate, it seems possible to escape this hell.

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The ∞, 41

Do not look back. Without looking down, twelve times eight steps, separated from insignificant levels, which are there just to break the march to break the rhythm of the breakaway, the tumble, where, again, shreds poster stand pitifully walls. Do not turn away to watch. Nothing. Neither the pages torn the hard times, nor the faces interrogators or indifferent, do not leave, not once, stop in your race. Do not hang the rhythm of your steps to a face glimpsed in a word heard. We may talk to you. Do not turn away from your race.

Six times two times eight steps (distributivity of multiplication, which, at will, to open and close and discard the brackets) will result in your spine ninety-six vibration response ninety-six both times when your not arise, and where the weight of your body will move to one side then the other in your frame (walking is constantly falling off, control, what about a crumbling concrete stairs in? I'm not sure she is also under control), and the vibration of the shock (that caused by the encounter with the smooth surface of this world) will spread ninety-six times in your bones, ascend ninety-six times along your spine, even in the finer bone in your neck, and as you will not rattle the world, four came sixteen times, you do not breathe the air biting from outside, nor the rustling of the pines.

Once you left the quiet spell of thought, there's nothing else to do but to flee. Do not turn away, even if a voice is calling you. Do not turn away, even if you hear your name called, secretly, in your way, even if the syllables are detached from the hubbub of the world, in the intervals left by such ninety-six pounding in your denial of this world and your joint will of elsewhere, tending toward an elsewhere. The call is deaf or sound, ignore it, I beg you. Ninety-six hits the stairs, turn away, as far as possible, do not leave your eye on the posters, there is nothing for you here, nothing but dust dry eyes, and forgetting is not even possible.

It is impossible that this is anything other than the rumblings of the underworld.

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The ∞, 40

Do not look back. Down. Without looking behind you. In theater, an actor must go down the stairs without looking at his feet, it is better he collapsed, rather than watching his own steps, and head down under his destiny, time and curvature of the body that he refuses. He is recovering. Something like a reed, which reflects its position straight into the wind, after a curve too steep. You, just as you do not turn around, that alone is important. It's simpler. Your approach is simpler. You can leave a space made of chalk and foggy thinking intertwined, just point straight up the corridor, the doors all closed, half the posters torn down, following which, you can descend the stairs, hitting to the fresh morning air, nothing hold you over.

The sequence of pure thoughts is suspended, and the race resumed with the world that our steps.

The corridor straight, that you must go back, is the last hall of the world before the great plunge into the open Hell these reversed. Its walls of indifference, fragments of speech, posted on walls, gradually loosen, dissolve, and hanging, bent and forgotten in the most absolute detachment. It is possible only in passing, one of us, I admit, in its breakaway, hard, with a shrug, handing her bag, a little of what was the subject of the attention, and is part of this offense, as he is in his power. And unmade all the things of this world.

The flow that we are in the wave and ride it as we are, falling apart and disintegrates, the same movement. Do

not look back. Down. That's the only thing to do. Get home from the bustle of this messy moment in your mind the most distant, do not cross the looks, it should be possible to watch anywhere, during the time that this slump will last, it is very possible that the gaze is fixed far, already almost out, almost in the world, and you, you follow the line taut as a wire between here and elsewhere.

wire is held back by sliding down the stairs and the world is found, six floors below, in a breath of fresh air.

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The ∞, 39

Run. Down the stairs, down, right angle, down again, and New right angle, and twelve times in succession, until the change of soil announces that Hell soon end. Deval. Always be careful not to get carried away in the momentum, as the momentum carries, carries us all. It is possible that we fall, we raced down the slope but who cares? It does not matter! Slide down the stairs, back down to the open air, this will suffice, that is enough! Simply run ... there is still time to back down, it's strange, that the underworld that must come down, it probably makes no sense, but one thing is sure, he remains in that slump, a single certainty, we must, as all hell, do not turn around, and this is the hardest thing in the world.

All of us who try, in this slump, not to return, are pitiful Orpheus. We

dégringolons, descend the stairs, it is possible that the bottom of this race, who knows, who decides?, A coffee and a cigarette in the fresh air again in the morning, or else thing, a long kiss in the arms of the beloved, or something else, the voice of the child expected in the mobile phone, who without realizing it extends balm on the soul, tell her, laughing last offense the serious world of adults, and how it has departed ... it does not matter, only, it prompts us to go down, we snatch the sky bright and fresh air, provided there is a way to breathe otherwise provided another pulsating heart of us wait downstairs.

Before that, he should ... this will be impossible without it ... if we do not ... just go to the airlock, the first steps are the hardest ... how not to worry ... we're not all Orpheus? That we may be only Eurydices? It may be that, like her, they all, we are disappearing again, absorbed in Hell, without it we may be powerless to resist our fate ...

I think of all these pathetic Eurydices, on which all Orpheus, ∞ ment pitiful, have returned.

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The ∞, 38

After that, the door opened, she creaked a little, a stream of air has gone through the interstices of this world, and each other came out of the room, and taking with them their thoughts and affairs, joining their future where their would not, they spilled into the hallway, I confess that I slipped into the stream, there was nothing else to do, no glory, only to be noticed by anything or anyone, no matter how difficult it is to blend into this world, but you do not play with fate in such situations, it does not cause the gods in places like suddenly

(they probably expected me to finish a sentence, my hand writing was probably what was expected of her, had aligned with the panel surface glaucous and liquid, and ready to join the river of hell he would never have come off the few signs that make up The Plurality of Worlds by David Lewis , without any doubt that he was finished, indeed as long as the stream of thought can be Finally, may not apply again and again for further clarification, further details infinitesimal which alone will keep the whole I'm not saying they did not expect this outcome, and that not only at the time they are lifted and one of them opened the door through which the stream flowed into the hallway straight)

and we dumped in the corridor, flood undetermined, undifferentiated suddenly, we left the fire doors not closing could not stop our momentum, they were still just the beginning, to from them it became clear that the escape could start, hung all the pitfalls in which it was still possible to fall, we have avoided, in order to descend the stairs, the same certainty as unbalanced as was our race, fall off, constantly, it seemed less dangerous, less risky than picking lifts which are nothing but nightmarish traps, registration obscene and grinning, the machinery inaccurate, we could know with certainty where they outweigh us, in what they hell we would go down, I think our strategy was right.

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The ∞, 37

I did not know it was possible to cross this area again in turmoil, I thought unattainable, forever closed a few paces from me, and yet this is absolutely unattainable, where turbulence most memorable variously colored jostle each other, come and collide in a silence so enveloping that it absorbs all the outside noise of the world around it. I sensed a moment before the whispers of some, for others, the clicking of fingers on the keyboard of their computer, and not the trivial conversations in the hallway behind the closed door of the room, and perhaps outside, although he was more distant, deep breath of wind, which never stopped here, and all that was erased when I walked into this space very narrow world.

Stop Will there ever be a child that was?

The memories of what was formerly in the days that another light bathed in reappearing and absurd in the light of a flickering neon, produce around them a strange cloud of fine dust which I did not expect: nothing could announce the possibility of the condensate, which surprises every time it happens, both these phenomena are irregular. An impalpable cloud detaches from the table, murky and stagnant, and suddenly spread around me, around me, so that a very fine dust into my eyes and cause, if not as dry, something that could be a tear.

dust chalk against the surface very sensitive and very transparent with our eyes sometimes causes something like a tear.

Strictly speaking, it could be that it is not a tear, I'd rather not, indeed, discuss this assumption, and I do not really see the importance that it might take, even if for a moment the eye becomes cloudy, and if the eyelids are closed, open again, even if something rolls down my cheek, I'm not sure, technically, be it a tear. This may simply be the effect, in my view, condensation unpredictable this memory, which I did not expect at all.

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The ∞, 36

my hand in a gesture shook. No one ever leaves this vague area that never ends through and around us, surrounding us like a misty veil? My hand trembled a gesture, stands up and does not rise. She holds the fingertips this chalky and brittle material whose wear on the surface the world will draw some signs where their eyes will arise, and they will follow the course. One moment my hand up and not get up, time remains, shook his gesture, suspended and that this moment has no extension does not at all it is ∞. Do

cease we ever be the child that was?

Why, in the dust of this world friable, electric light of a neon hesitant, silhouetted against the gray wall of time, the child who has been chosen it suddenly reappear, here and now, without beware of anything, ignoring the least Suddenly he breaks the course of reasoning and the development of abstract ideas and mastered that for a moment before that, unfurled in silence? His manifest presence and clear emerges between the self and the world, shaky little figure, with no possibility of turning away from his sight glass. His concern is always waiting tangible and should make some gesture in his direction. I do not know how to take her hand.

So my hand, years later, stands up and does not rise.

As before, the face of insurmountable wall of ignorance, that the child was lifted a gentle hand to try and round in the gesture began to enter the world the required response (he did not know, how would he know?, his mind is full of dream and magic formulas, no adult ever could have understood that no one ever asked him). Then the child that was before the blackboard and chalk raised his hand, hoping that the signs only in a fabulous course, would be written on the vertical surface and opaque, it has nothing else to do than be guided by the chalk without antagonizing its movement.

Someone should guide his steps in the rubble ∞ of this world, and I do not feel capable of doing.

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The ∞, 35

Stay there, without moving, just a moment, a tiny moment, in this region of the ancient world, this space that the memories live and suddenly I can not cross, where a hand that does is not mine erases the tears on my cheeks, and made his only stop warm caress. Stay there a moment, motionless, without being able to cross the world, while all await hanging my gesture me to put on the surface glaucous and vertical table, strings of words, the more complex they , thus they will be sure to have seized in the course of hours.

And suddenly a moment, very short I'm sure my hand instead of getting up, keep still, I'm standing, and my face is inches away from the green surface, I see it, the green table, already swept large traces decentered chalk dust, that hand gestures have erased the drawing, have drawn deleting them, one and one is true and both statements reciprocal look in the mirror game, referring constantly without one end to another. Between the two, I'll stay a moment, not because I decided there was nothing else to do, he should admit that there was, it turns out that there was such a thickness of dreams, a dream so resistant texture that I could not cross it. Frame

fine memories.

She holds a moment in this space where I could believe it possible to find other times, other places. I do not know where they disappeared. I thought those moments ∞ s, and they disappeared I know not where. Where the race days that drift into the night has brought in its wake. But the fabric of very fine leaves happy memories does not cross easily. One moment I stay in it, as in the wire very fine and silky and very tough as gossamer memories, he must decide ... ...

for my hand finally write the table, screeching in the very light of chalk, a few minimal parts would loosen and fall silently on the floor, the title, they expect to note, I meaning they hold, even in the very area outside this world where I am then suspended at my hand in the gesture hung a moment in which it will record The Plurality of Worlds David Lewis.

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The ∞, 34

The chalk squeaks. I'm suffocating. The universe suddenly closer together on this single sign placed on the murky surface of the table. The crumbly stick of chalk and lose a tiny bit of substance, Again, on the vertical surface which, itself, loses a little area. He stayed in my pocket, spring at times my hand rolls fingertips as I speak, without my being any need to think about it, and then suddenly, mechanically, because my voice at a time text, gives a proper name, which returns the world to a single individual, complex processes by reference (do we imagine the complexity of the method that returns, in the language, to one individual?), while mechanism well anchored, although appropriate, and the line where there is no question to derogate, my not make me walk across the room from side to side, draw, What happens in a straight line between the location of the space where I said, and the murky surface of the table, my hand grabbed the piece of chalk, by force, become lukewarm, and it traces some signs that make him lose a bit of new material.

The same operation, mechanics, similarly to reiterate, every time my voice will deliver a new concept, or a statement whose ramifications are suitable for this operation.

At that time, I am almost alone, his face turned against the table. I do not remember as a child of terror and pride that I felt at that time, thought is launched in the speed of deployment and the memories are not appropriate, it is clear, however, that all these memories are there, between me and the murky surface, and I'm going through, every time I approach a very complex area of turbulence past. I am almost alone in a very old world. My hand is raised as high as he is able to avoid the other signs already registered, interconnected with arrows and paths multiple possible paths of the mind in ideas, and signs it then traces meet the expectations silent or indifferent to their eyes fixed on my hand, so that while she the track during the tiny time he needs to complete to register The Plurality of Worlds or supervenience meanwhile narrow interval of silence in the sustained tension of the lyrics, I cross this area only memories, without even time to think about them.

Or maybe it's not more than an image, so fleeting that it is possible (only one child against the blackboard and immmensément above, which seeks to despair the sequences of letters required, with each others who respond to the insistence of the adult, and enter the word that does not give my memory, I try, the chains do not promise any dynamics of handwriting, and I feel my eyes fill with tears, as I wipe a hand full of chalk dust) against the representation of which it is not possible to fight, it passes far before running dry of ideas does not resume his regular.

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The ∞, 33

The chalk squeaks. I'm suffocating. It does not even draw some mysterious sign on the surface glaucous, glaucous itself of the table. Only a few part numbers, they will note obediently. All eyes on me suspended, interrogative sentence. The chalk squeaks. Again my gesture failed, and a little dust off, which should have been involved in the registration of some truth (I do not know) on the surface of this murky vertical wall (it would bend and disappear beneath the long filaments of algae, but nothing happens, and it remains vertically hopeless, it is not even possible to enter on its surface, a reflection rippling).

Outside, the chimney of a nuclear invisible let go nonchalantly huge plumes of white smoke overhead the sky.

My voice unfolds, horizontally, against all odds, through space, wrapped around them, holding them. I am looking for a breath and even if not creeps in my throat as chalk dust, things are going their during their regular pitch. Never mind, it must pass. My voice unfolds, carries further than is possible at the speed of thought, and finally nailed their attention, and falls on their leaves. They write. It condenses in the air stifling hot room (how long are they, well, locked up with each other, how many times are they well looked?), They do not protest, leave sentences fall on them like a shower, sometimes reluctant, straighten the head, and then again, the words spoken fall as rain black on their page.

The ink flows like a dried blood spot.

A chair creaks. I'm suffocating. A door slams. Time passes as if he suddenly collapsed. Chalk too long breaks at the instigation of a word. One of them gets up, goes out without warning, a silent and not perfectly elastic, returns a bit later, still silent and rubbery, my question is always, even if the chalk dust sticks to hands and whiten my wrist. Outside, little by little, the line that drew on the hills the sky melts into dusk and the lights. Between two sentences, I see the daylight night, switching from one day into oblivion precarious.

I wonder how, here, there may be a result of ∞. But the repetition does not change anything. In chalk dust, the toe, I record all the while talking on the eighth elongated, inverted, smiling at me.

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The ∞, 32




The ∞ is a Möbius strip, it rolls like an 8, stretches, twists somewhat, formation and deformation, strain out a horizontal disturbing, and it becomes impossible, and leave and not come out. Is this strip that wraps around the wrist, link tiny fragile, which runs a few times, and links around the home fine? I do not know, but it is certain that narrowed ∞ ment within the confines of our potential, the ∞ is nothing but a Möbius strip.

It remains paradoxical to look for scraps of ribbon that is ∞ because he is not cut, because any section of the destroyed him, ∞, which takes place in our minds, Figure surprising geometry, because for once, this is not usual for this aberrant sphere of knowledge, where laws are fertile possible, perhaps in the world that it is in our minds, we must remember this truth miserable and full, beautiful Möbius strip that is ∞ because, to ∞, it is impossible to leave him, while coil will be endless, merciless, it will be useless, you may be aware, thanks to cry. Should we conclude that, unfortunately, so it is that our incarceration ∞?

must flee, and he must flee, the conclusion is, and how not to recognize that it is necessary, all the power of detachment (from the height of the syllogism, proposals, together, articulate, and concluded, disdainfully, stands. But then it is rational to think that in the wake of Ulysses, he must get out of this spiral, crushed in on itself and disappear as far as possible, the horizon of the sea ∞ e.



It would be ironic that our only near-miss in the ∞, we back our steps shortly.

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The ∞, 31




Where will I seek you now? Where do I wear my steps? I do not know where to go. That I remain motionless, arms dangling, his head raised, the middle of this intersection in the rain. The rain that runs off my life is not sad. But what a huge empty space opens in the world ... is this what the ∞? Here, the towers do not soar, electric lights did not become sidereal, so they do not transcend their incandescent hysterical. And even the crowd does not advance this not calm, which made similar, under the incessant drizzle, to nothing more than a passing thought opalescent opaque darkness in our performances.

Where shall I look for Ulysses, which I seek his opportunity, and that even from the sea ∞, how is it possible, by detours and strategies staggering, to keep his heart, so my time is fractured, fragmented as in effect a silent explosion, and if by tiny cracks that are doing all they walk away with the wind ? I'm the only compass of my dreams, the needle is detached from it, north-north-west ... Ulysses ... I'll keep looking for you if possible but is it still possible to get you otherwise that looks like a shadow in another, in the despair of the night? I do not know where to focus my steps in the middle of this intersection is too narrow ... north-north-west ... the possibility of Ulysses included somewhere in the world, but the needle of my compass cracked it to me almost more in these courses ...

how to not only be a shadow among the shadows? Sometimes I fear that there is no solution, no magic can not protect us as the dissolution of our beings. What improbable detour Ulysses he made his whole life not to be a shadow among the shadows? How could we not be it, nothing else but that, in the twilight, and now the shadows that we have become endless stretch, stretch into the night, lose their verticality, north ... -north-west ... Flickering in the wind of reality is sinking in the depths of the most opaque material, and lost, ending in tiny choking.

Just a tiny choking to get lost all hope. A tiny renunciation does not suffocate. A tiny cowardice. And thereby destroying the possibility of Ulysses.

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The ∞, 30

Life is a love story with the world.

Who are we talking about in the evening when we go home, on the way that we do not look, as we have seen, as we know it, before putting the key in the lock, to play the familiar click, and bring our bag into the entrance? Its mild form is folded in on itself, and fatigue subsides and settles our shoulders. Who do we think when we lost in our thoughts, and scraps are deposited smiles on our lips, we do not address to anyone, yet they are there, who spend like angels in our silence? The questions fly through the night and silence.

Our life is a love story with the world. Fragments are detached. Sometimes a crumbling old wall, which shelters us from the wind, and against which we rest our tired. Something crumbles. Dreams fall into small fragments, impalpable. Something crumbles under the fingertips. And we roll our ideas in mind, that no one could say, grains of sand beneath our fingers, sometimes they come into our eyes, and a tear comes off, rolling down our cheek, the wind comes in, and takes away our breath, off, off, where we did not even dream of power to transport us lovingly.

Then there will be spaces. Then we open our spaces, we discard the open parenthesis, closed too quickly, we detach the potential to make them exist. They will deploy in the world, and nothing nobody can contradict this momentum, we will bring Ulysses we melt into the possibility of Ulysses. Please

the world (although I do not know how to make these few snippets that will open possibilities, I do not know). Life is a love story with the world to invent.

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The ∞, 29

course as always, you did not answer. You will not answer my questions. It became a habit, I ask questions, I try to understand, I try to understand you, and the horizon moves away (you know, the horizon disappears when the possibility of Ulysses, he n 'was not wrong, I admit, one day ...), the more I find myself making, contained, muffled in a place dark, opaque as naphtha, crude oil, unrefined, we found that for a whole summer on the beaches, because a boat had sank and its sides had been gutted by the swell.

past, I remember, I put my hand in the warm hand that was stretched towards me, and I asked all the questions that came to mind, receiving a pain au chocolate, escaped issues my lips, I looked around and gestures had a spontaneity that I do is more. They floated in the transparent air, and often I felt a smile that rested on me. And stage repeated to ∞, I thought it would last forever.

Now I do not understand anything ... You again became opaque and mysterious, inert, gooey, your material has changed state, it looks like you got before this awful word, without enthusiasm, "Colloidal" and you repeat it in all possible cases, you change the context, but for years, I can not hear it in your voice, and I'm doing everything I can, I think I do skimp, I think, if I look at most of my consciousness, where there beats a little life still systole diastole, yet the pace is calm and regular, doctor even told me that I will live up to one hundred twenty years, I can say I'm really all I can.

But nothing helped. Nothing was done. There are now over, there's no big deal, it's not a brilliant and spectacular destruction, not only that, the world has become gently informs, colloidal, as in a Dali nightmare. Now

not mean anything ... everything comes out of my hands, and the possibility of Ulysses has disappeared over the horizon ∞.

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The ∞, 28

- Leave me alone. Let me a moment. I can not stand. We have arrived at a tipping point. Now you must leave me. If the vortex in which you took me not stop for a moment, I shall succeed in anything. How do you want me to take an elk, how can you even think I can take an elk, moose my return, if you do not stop me from breaking up, break me, as you do it constantly for so long ... I do not know when you started at the beginning, things went pretty well, I remember there was space, possibilities, time, opportunity, indeed, I found the prospect , while walking in the streets, squares, and in the evening, there was always at every moment to contemplate the possibility ∞ tion length a picture of a Renaissance master. It was after that everything started to go wrong. Besides, I've never been able to know when it happened, I was not able to identify the grain of sand in the mechanism, or to withdraw it, but it is certain that there is input, he settled there, he seized the perfect mechanics, watchmakers arrangements, something went wrong, and now you do not stop, you do not stop for a moment to practice on me this strange anguish .

- ...

- You say nothing, you have nothing to say? So why not wilt thou not for a moment and break me? So can it be of grace in you? Have you even thought about what it means to be fragmentary, to be his duty to gather every morning before facing the gaze of others, and the pieces back together, and feel, all along the day that the joints are flawed and they will not longer? You know, you, this feeling just fade away gradually losing his own trail in you? You can guess what impression it can make you feel is nothing but a little dust that holds together, certainly, but that does not take long (one breath enough to disrupt any). I do not know not even why I'm talking about, well, you do not care much of what I say, you are not listening.

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The ∞, 27

- Hurry!
- Wait for me, here I come! I can not do it faster ...

After walking on the platform and briefly immersed in the underworld, the events the next day resume their course. Saccades. The time is fragmenting, and sometimes falls into very fine mosaic floors. Portions minimum time we are allocated. Cutting into the fabric of the day. The eye bank is anxious to watch the progress notes, or delays, worries, projection of what will be in what was, that is, it is difficult to keep. Projection jerks. We stumble. The wait is concerned, she weaves anxiety now, color the son of our thoughts.

- You have prepared the text for the procedure tomorrow.
- Not quite, I need a little time today ...
- What are you waiting for?

unravel. We impulses that stop, gestures that emerge will never be completed, they will not get that in the vast orb of their own. Lack of scale. Lack of space. We are enclosed in parentheses narrow, which gradually little, like magnets, approach each other. Our phrases, quotes, dialogues are weak, we do not listen.

The possibility of Odysseus is away, disappeared in the distance.

But we keep ourselves well to look ahead. Our eyes are focused on the very thin surface before us, aligns numbers and letters. Focal length of our world. Odysseus is away in another taut line. We want ours to be a hallucination that suddenly appeared before us focus all attention, ask all forces of our being, Ulysses off, continues to move away, he comes out of the reach of our voice, wind carries it, and the sea is favorable, it is beyond the scope of our eyes, and then, now at this place in the world, he came out of our thoughts.

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L "∞, 26

Crushing, wrinkling. Sliding my cheek and landed on my arm, which rests against the window, but it does nothing to see. The shadows have reversed their ink and the world is blind. The train for hours not mark off. Wrinkling. The skirts of my coat wrapped around me like the night. What is there to do other than look for a tiny spot in the brackets of the trip?

(There should have blooms possible openings in the suspension of that time, this trip should be crossing geographical representations incredibly accurate, colorful scenes of stunning, dreams should grow in abundance in the day and the expectation and impatience, and it is still nothing.)

In the hallway, two children play, inaccurate movements, and unsteady gait, and their laughter, cascades of laughter, and light pushing. Then return to their seats. Sit. Faces aligned. Next to each other. We are all sitting next to each other. Behind each other. Alignment. Sometimes a box is empty. A traveler is not mounted, remained ashore.

(It should be possible to blend into the night, joining the dark bewitched, bewitching darkness, he should be given to us to breathe the smell cold, damp, fog and low clouds mingle with the night involved in our eyes, the fog of our breath, our track fleeting breath, melt the tiny exhalation of ourselves to ∞.)

Instead, we negotiate with e ∞ awkwardness, in a tiny An opportunity to hold our legs, in our neck of the angles of attack that would allow the dreams that do not permit. The head tilts. Dreams flicker, angles close, head leans, the world moves forward, and under the closed eyelids, it would be almost possible to seek the possibility of Ulysses, but again, the body falters and consciousness returns, binds around the world. Confinement.

Wedding Prayer Of The Faithful

The ∞, 25

- What do you think?
- you would have told you, that your life would be like this, when you were fifteen?
- Not ...

It reaches me snippets of the world into consciousness ... scraps of this world being condensed in the 7:28 p.m., who break the barriers of my sleep I want to dive a bit deeper into this makeshift shelter made by a scarf, crumpled under my head and I'm back a piece on my face, and fatigue of the day, which could take me back to Paris, where I manage to stay there in the murky waters and still falling asleep ...

- ... we inform you that a bar is available to you car 14, the center of the train. You can find ... I know

then I know all the commercial development of this joy and factice me back to the surface. I could tell in his place, repetition did enter my connections neuronal, and now, once the pattern begins, it may occur alone, without the slightest effort is needed, the role ... I know by heart ... hot drinks, cold drinks, sandwiches, sweets ... then it will attack the question of means of payment ... if only I could slide a little deeper into sleep, like a sailor away from the sea, and ended up being away from the coast ... ... Ulysses

- Hello, Control Tickets please!

The possibility of Ulysses moves at a speed of three hundred twenty kilometers an hour. The world is like a fog condenses on the glass and the contrast of the car too much and lit from dusk that I no longer see Odysseus. He had to move away from the sea unchanged. I'm looking at a pocket, another in the bottom of my bag, unable to avoid absorbed in these gestures, cardboard rectangular alienate pale hand extended toward me, I do not see the man who is standing in the driveway, only the sleeve of his uniform, his hand outstretched, which grasped the ticket gives me. My scarf slips on the ground.

Outside night has fallen like a veil of secrecy. The possibility of Odysseus was lost I do not know where.

96 Subaru Airbag Reset

The ∞, 24

And then at some point of time, which no doubt corresponds to a specific location by location change, we move geographically, all either in the luminous line that the train track of a gesture sure, and without one being able to identify it without risk of being wrong, head leans, oscillates, and consciousness, in turn, staggers, without in any way deviate from this line that crosses the entire space. If so, the neck is supported within the perimeter of its possible hesitation, if it stalls, it is not impossible that consciousness becomes, the world, more and more diffuse, more and more vague ...

... And that, on the waves of this consciousness undecided, undivided horizon where the sea meets the ether, undivided images, which are transformed into each other continuously, solidarity vague dreams that pass through vague images, a tree whose bare silhouette stands out against the fine imperception what is the background fades, the painter did not finish the painting, it leaves in my conscience that path with ink, and I know nothing more, but certainly I saw between my eyelashes almost rested against each other edge of the eye behind which I shelter my dreams, inked silhouette of this tree, before

my eyelids do bring to a close. Anyone

... anonymous ... who cares?, We do not know ... but the waves are there, under the eyelids, they are there, which succeed each other, I remember to have you watched ( e) looking at them, and they never ceased to succeed, they never cease to succeed, and I thought in one of the quieter recesses of my consciousness, that you would not leave until there would be another and still another, and each wave in itself the possibility of the next, I end up thinking that you would never want to leave, and I looked at you like a drop of ∞ deposited on the finished anything in this world.

You alone (e), ∞. But I am not very sure. So