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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