You compose that sonata as you are eager
to analyze the exquisite crush
of some ideas. I listen to you
while admiring 'The Sky'
painted with scissors by Henri Matisse. Those white
birds flying look like
moving hieroglyphs. So different
seems to be this new Sunday

dawn in our old secreting sun! The woven web
of some golden rays
forms intricate, catching spirals
of life. Your piano composition

is about a few rising dreams and falling angels, while this unique rocking


is slowly whitening
your hair. On a chair
looking like those that are found in the cut and curl salons,
there are forgotten
two Mizutani shears.
Our salon
is not destined for cut and curl, but for the meeting
between many artists only.

The house has spiral stairs leading to an exit to
the Lonely Street. We don't
celebrate the Sundays, but I think
'tis good
to celebrate them, because, on these days,
people think to give their best
to The Lord. The notes
of your sonata are as those vanishing steps,

that I hear, sometimes, in our corridor,
when the silence stops to guard the door
of your secret room. It’s Sunday again,
but it's raining with tears from
the eyes of the clouds. Nonetheless, the artists
don't want to miss
listening to you play the piano. The music
is like a daybreak,
or like an undiscovered


The growing grass slopes were surmounted
by the sky of death, by confused
thoughts and by a smoking moon. While taking a deep,
crouching breath, a greedy beast started
to eat the world. There
were incessantly blowing shadows
and a wind being emerged from them...

On a blind stitch of the night, the man was
following his yellow horse.

His outstretched hand painted
the horizon with gestures
while waiting to be filled with misery. The famine
driving through the naked reality became
the cry of this wind. Feared to see
and hoped to be

at the bottom of this unknown darkness with the levers
of stars threatening the horizon, the sadness
and the itchy confidences.

As a foot stone, his motionless horse
didn't seem to suffer. The old
man was talking alone.
about his wariness, about the depths,
and about the night of memories.

With brooding gestures, he tried to understand
the immensity of the unknown.
He pointed a vague and ignored place
populated by people.

The tabernacle wasn't accessible,
nor was it locked to hide a crouching god,
who wanted to bury his chin and his knees,
while he was staring his eyes off.

Some gusts itched the man's back,
This wind could grow while
the blown horizon constantly expanded.
A new dawn started to revive the dead sky
while huge flames were bloodying the darkness
without clarifying the unknown.

The man lit a candle.


This antique mirror boosts no confidence. Concave

reveals its magic tricks with an incurvate

red surface. Some human hair

blending braids are there to fancify your boxers, your removable

metallic silver suspenders underwear and

her red bra underwire slips. It is a new style.

I feel anguish, when I touch the pull locks. Her picture

of the antique statue is hidden between all those things. She

enters the mirror to kiss you every time you look at it. Like jelly candies

are her lipsticks on that silver, but

they have different taste. For me,

they look like isoquants, or indifference curves. I want

to leave you. What do you think?

The water that drips from the mirror, when I wash it, is like crimson blood. Scary

optical illusions split the reality into two variants through my woe,

and create a much looser and less direct relationship

between us than ever. You live for

your comfort and versatility. You cannot change it.

[Marieta Maglas]


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