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A) Inception/time on my hands/the prince
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Heretofore was I a hippish child. A Velazquez' bad dream was my morning star.
Weeping harlequin under a misty light cast by spiders, little prince of the kingdom of the lazy tedium, savage and intractable; I was.
My loneliness incarnata: in Delacroix and Goya's nightmares she never left me alone.
Because my dreams were:
-interminable stairways to escape from myself
-that terror of the diffuse European things
-perverse angels moving between pines of aggressive green
-the cold as soul-flesh
-lakes like profound and sombre mirrors
-a labyrinth of rain
-threatening faces that never could be seen
-desperate race (the more I ran, the less I moved)
-walls
-corridors
-brown bricks with incomprehensible signs
-the smell of rancid humidity
-a (never) complete obscurity
-jails
-pits, and...
B) End/la miel du Diable/ the beast's issue
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I was the pariah who knew how to see, in all the strange and disproportionable things a balsam and a home.
My echo was estranged on through the big forests in 1000 ricochets. Like a wild beast running blind, I tried to reach the source of all the nonsensical things: the art of the demented ones, the children of Gaia playing naked on Adriatic shores, the silvery aeroplanes of the prehistoric India, the laser of Mu...disgusting solar rites...
But I just found a stranger, a fantasm in myself.
Then it started raining.
The grey honey of the Devil started raining.
And it found me disguised like a buffoon with broken hands...
Still I'm here, just a shade in this hospital lit by a ray of winter.
And while this rain still falls, I'm ready to jump like a frenzied hyena.
Like a horrible, wet dog.
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