The indiscreete rotation

The world must be wonderful, beyond the muffled atmosphere of these rooms and the obstinate curtain of encephalopathy; now that Autumn is still a harmless chrysalis, an apparently unlikely threat, while the industriousness of men swarms again, in search of untouched paths.

The Autumn of intellectual and material adventures, of encounters and discoveries, remains an unfulfilled promise, which I nevertheless do not give up on cultivating. Because I don’t know if Ulysses kissed his stony Ithaca during this season, but I like to think so.

I am perpetually mocked by the indiscreet rotation of the wall clock, which turns on the spot; while Rilke’s panther remains trapped in my chest.

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