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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