Stress led me to stick my left index into my left nostril. It was then that, holding my stomach tight not to throw up, I realized that I was touching the end of a slimy but solid string that went all the way up to where grey knotted matter reigns: that hanging string was in fact my brain which, in some mysterious way, had found its way out to the open air. I took the slime between index and thumb, and pulled. I sensed my brain slowly unrolling. I felt it moving like a ball of wool soaked with water. And the more I pulled, the more that horror emerged, like a tapeworm, from my body.
I used what I had left of my brain to think furiously about every thing, about all the thinkable things in every place and every time.
I only had a few moments left before I completely lost my mind.
And I find myself in this forest I don't recognize, and I wander and everything flows over me, and the air is that of old times. I remember the light strange.
Nowhere. I turn around observe everybody and nobody, kids, faces different. And similar, far then close, and the air is neither warm nor cold fine I am feeling fine like being in London if I close my eyes perhaps. But the air is the right one the sky too, so artificial like a sheet stretched upon me, upon us even though the others don't realize how funny that horizontal thing that divides the above from the below so well can be, two strips and we move, the others move, I still watch and if I walk it is only my head, deranged senses without having taken anything, why, and yet what I see is too bright and what I hear is too loud like in a dream and head spins and I am swallowed by a sense of peace and fear in which to be in Liverpool Street Station or here or at the seaside has no importance.
And nobody speaks to me because I don't speak to anybody. They look at me because I look at them and they go and I look for something and me not at home because, why should I go home already if here it is not cold? And time is still. I watch myself like in a movie and I think and the muscles of my face stretch in a grin of speechlessness until my facial features start loosing shape and my face melts and I become part of the wall. This heat cannot be real! Not heat, more dead, dead time, it doesn't breath, air holds breath and suffocates. The houses are so strange, thousands of people suspended on different floors, one walking on another's head one washes another's head another paints someone else's feet...
I don't know anything anymore I don't remember I read a lot and I don't remember, I knew many things and I don't know them anymore I am empty my brain a hole if you peep through you will see the sky white and the light fake too bright.
To be a prostitute for a day of festivity, a hidden door in Pimlico, light that changes and becomes green, and men and boys. Beds. There is a sound, yes, it's that of a bouncing piano. A bit of whisky, and here you are, writing down your past without being able to stop. Just, don't scream!
Let others talk, cry and laugh, loudly even, but don't you scream, ever.
How could a father be happy, if all one can see is sex? He will switch to another channel, quietly and a little bit embarrassed. Why?
- because of the sex he is watching
- because of sex in general
- because his son is watching, together with him, sex.
- because of having to change channel for this reason.
- because of what his son could be thinking about the fact that his father doesn't want him to watch a sex scene.
This photograph is full of geometric shapes. The body forms a triangle inscribed in an oval, and the face is another oval, it is an egg shadowed by its own roundness.
Everything in him tends towards an invisible point on his right, our left: his right shoulder, his head, his mouth, his gaze and his tie do.
He is wearing a dark suit and a lighter colored waistcoat with large buttons. We can see five of them. He is also wearing a tie that is not tied properly and makes him look like he was in a hurry when he got dressed.
His chin is round, scornful , strong. His mouth is a wound not yet healed; it is a razor too, the same one that produced the wound, in an act of self-mutilation. The cheeks are too childlike to share the same face with those eyes.
The nose is small, feminine, pretty. It traces a perfect line that goes from the the its tip to the left eye brow.
The eyes are tyrants. They bully the rest of the face. They are too much to be real.
They are large, heavy lidded blue eyes. The best thing about them is the shadow cast by the eyelids on the ice blue irises; it makes them look as if they had been painted by Edward Burne-Jones.
The eyes look up, towards the left, our right.
They gaze at a point that is beyond any wall, any tree or any mountain. It is beyond seconds, hours and centuries.
This gaze doesn't address us, that would be unbearable for us, but it leads us somewhere: it is a portal, an oracle.
These eyes are not to be spoken about and, even if I just have, everything I said is irrelevant.
His forehead is wide and white. His hair looks thick and shiny. I like his hair.
This is the face I'll never get tired of looking at.
This face is the perfect icon. It is a face that requires one to be religious, obsessive about it.