Don’t look away from the abyss, If you do, you can never acknowledge it exists. It’s not as much outside us as within us. Recognize this. The only way out of it Is to march through it. To live it is to embrace it. It may hurt, such wounding is necessary, Those are the required marks. People forget that history repeats itself, The cost of forgetting is too high.

You ask me what can you do about it? You can do nothing. But you can try to be human. You can weep at such breaking, Remember when you do this very carefully Because you are not as much weeping at such meaninglessness As much as recognizing that such a beast exists Within each one of us. You will know when it flashes, In anger and in shame, when you can’t bear to look At your own face in the mirror. You will cry out, Aloud, why this way, why this now, first to Mom And then to God. This is the common denominator, this is what makes us, men of spirit and white bone.

A single eye is enough, so is the single wing of a butterfly to thrill the skin.

Opening, closing and undressing as if thousands and thousands of maple leaves are falling along avenues and as if around the corner I am going to see someone(you?) turning and vanishing and as if that glimpse would tunnel through my irises and lodge in my vision like a diamond.

After that everything would be split into seven. Light, notes of music, thoughts, hours awaiting your next sight like waters are being split by the fins of so many thousands of shoals of tropical fish that I wouldn't know where and what to look for.

Then perhaps you will become visible, the quintessence of black eyes that signal and await at windows for someone to arrive, a glimse of the unknown beyond seeing. Then I would know, how I have arrived to this point of unision: of your colors, of your words and of your eyes

that I can only but imagine just behind all these flashing transient screens.

I stand outside and watch a gardener mow grass, that smell of sap rises towards the noonday sun.

But I am far away from all these sensations, I am on the Siene, I am with Matisse as he fills his canvases with this orange light. Barges and boats ply up and down hooting their horns, tinkle of bicyclists bells, vendors on the streets, life is moving like a river through all the avenues, through me.

I am on a bridge arching over the waters, I am suspened like the gong of a clock awaiting for the completion of the hour so that I can strike, so that the echo of that sound can be carried by the wind to distant places when horizontal rain maybe be falling or where everything is snow white to jutaxspose everything black and everything beautiful that has been revolving in these deep revieres of mine.

And soon as quite darkness falls over the day and when millions of fireflies flit in the streets, everything would light up into a grand festival called You, soon very soon on the banks of Siene!!