Batik

This shadowy and labyrinthine town has swallowed the entire human consortium, I said.

It sounds like a chorus spinning around a unique emotional state. Voices and cries overfilling the streets, rolling  down at dawn and returning upstream at twilight

with a load of bitterness, pain

and courage.

 

A few days after the new dock opening ceremony, a large ship entered and two girls got off.

I noticed them because I’ve been trafficking with numbers, mostly

strings of two units at a time that I combine, pile up or split in grids to contrast their power,

(with the automorphic numbers, I almost touched the abstraction)

Then, because I feel lonely in this life made of non-empty sets.

 

They looked good: wide eyes, open mouths, tiny bodies and a nicety at any cost that made it all so genuine and fresh. Of that day, that signed the apex of my communication skill to the human gender, I keep a photo.  My nose is asymmetric. Look.

I never realized that.

I can’t stop thinking of it.

 

I’m a grown-up – even now -, bent on my numbers and framed by the artificial light, like a chorister in an orthodox church, a goldsmith in his father workshop or an alchemist, carefully stirring the Leonardo’s bistre.

My lovers have hung their clothes here and there. They swing spontaneously, nodding at me, dissenting at me, making fun of me, of my doggedly returning to these

refuge assets.

In the fog (waiting for Springtime) - Apennines (Italy)
Low clouds (waiting for Springtime) – Apennines (Italy)

# 9

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