...The old bagpiper of Palacio Valdes street has gone, the night goes opening the doors of the night: it's 7.30 p.m. in Gijón, it's starting to rain.
Years before; I used to feel the telescopic distance from this Earth, up to the astral rooms: boxes of the sky. In each box/room there was a daughter, and as the walls of those bedchambers were blue like the oxygen, so the daughters were, by an early osmosis of the invisible, or maybe anthological. In the anthology of the sky, the daughters aren't dead, they just cry: the tears are blue, too; and fall on nocturnal roofs of the depressed countries: the inundated Flanders. All this, believe it or not, is lotsa love. Though the love doesn't exist in the sky of the daughters, only the air walls and a perfection that, under other perspectives, it could be slightly imperfect: this is done so, to add a human warmth to the whole scene. And everything does happen at the same instant in that sky, forever: does happen into the always and the never: the hamlets of Flanders sleep deeper than the night: the black sky is a transparent conch that does cover itself...
Now, like a footlight, a car passes by the avenue driven by a vampiro: it sounds Deep Purple's "Soldier of fortune", i recognize it in the act...the car disappears in the mizzle.
