If not for the sight of constellations the sky would be a shoulder blade in red. The line of the sea. A cannon firing at who knows what barbarian invasion. And my book yet unpublished, and my consolation of being the coauthor of the great Ptolemy. Rejoice, unquiet soul, in visits, in losing at games of chance. Console your parents, whose son has left for good a home that teems with monotonous ghosts and retrograde visions perpetuum mobile of bones from ever older men, growing younger under crosses of ruined stone. I review the celestial ships arriving, the boats that see us and shout: UK! UK! or Vef! Vef! It means nothing to us who think in thoughts and speak in words. In great halls, illumined by the full rising of the moon, hu! How disgusting it can be drawing, drawing ticket after ticket in the shinbone lottery. And the solitary cannon fires into the night, and a sweet, reddish light falls on my hands, and I let my hands be gnawed by starving dogs, each finger receiving a ring made of ashes, my pain tempered by a song.
What do You think about Wheel With A Single Spoke?
