The Apocalypse

Slipping on pain, caught in the anxiety of speaking and the duty of acting, I grasp matter, starting my flight. Down there inside colour and in the forbidden worlds, among the plastic shapes and seduced tones, that softly whisper the solutions.

As a skilful guide I set the route, but its freedom with a solitary director conspire together to make ideal paths, the common hope, genial intuitions. 

In the night of days, among those nervious branches, souls in pain must be saved, in the deafening silence of that world that flows and moves while still. Here everything contradicts everything else, the start embraces the finish, alpha and omega have one single lord.

But that little man with the bewildered look passes by chance, with the shards of a wasted life in his eyes, and the fury of what he may have attempted. That is the richest little man there is, with soothed emotions and wrong paths, lost chances that do not make history.

That chance passer-by goes on the journey with me.