The warmth wonders. And he, basically like any other human, was is and will be interested in watching wonders although utterly not surprised to observe them happening. It is as sure as death that you would also be not surprised to seize ’em if you didn’t notice them, did you, would you? Doubtlessly he’s not the one to blame for it.
By Mother Nature he was produced in that special, that most wonderfully unmarvelous and disgusting as well way that he, to tell the truth, stood absolutely no chance to catch sight of the first and the main and the most sentimental for nothing wonder of his hole life-term. Quite sinful a wonder of wonders that would wander its way from the very fleshy desires. Ah, this wonderful world! Viva el mundo, viva la vida! Perversity fathers innocence, filthiness – purity. Passion was the reason for it and him. The sin was the nurse, the clerk and the rhyme.
The Roman hill, an arrow struck by Eros and the Tiber seasoned with a couple of pints of salt and here he goes, from there he’s come. Ave! Ave! Morituri te salutant! What the hell the Romans were thinking ’bout? Shame, shame on them! Witty barbarians, scholars and artists, actors and orators, whores and sluts. They spoke and taught and thought of Styx etcetera. Reincarnated. Fell. And felt like keeping on falling and fell outside.
Once red – for ever white. He spied on them foundering and now as they were not avalanching him bull’s-eyely, they felt the same, he felt himself, he felt the same.
A nastily freezing wintry night was shamelessly inciting merciless gusts of wind to penetrate him. The frost. The matter is of no concern to the frost. It aims further, much further. And deeper. It aimed for his roots, letting the wind frolic with his leaves. Ever-frozen convolutions of his brain made him feel like being gradually buried half-alive by crumbs of deadly white snow. Streets – those rows of graves with no deadmen in them, houses – those charnel squadrons of sepulchers with naïve lights inside, town – sterile pale graveyard being in its turn ironically buried under billions of white blank molecules.
Endeavoring not to pay heed to the high wind blowing at his back he struggled to resist the bursts of the gale in his face.
Irritating snowflakes. Boasting. They were too numerous. He never really enjoyed big companies. He could not see his outstretched hand but what would have changed if he could. He’d seen it before. At the end of the day. It appeared quite impossible a task to be set before him – to throw his own hand out of memory.
Too many impossibles. Too many tasks.
Boasting. Showing off. Falling on him and melting, soaking him. A scolding teacher. Not teaching. Simply scolding. Scolding harshly. Why can they not just fall? There definitely was a perfect correctness in them. Calling and screaming symmetry. Cooling transparency and vulgar tracery.
Here they are, his fingers. His lusting fingers. At last they touched the longed-for doorhandle.