I am living at the Villa Borghese. There is not a crumb
of dirt anywhere, nor a chair misplaced. We are all
alone here and we are dead.
alone here and we are dead.
Last night Boris discovered that he was lousy.
I had to shave his armpits and even then the itching
did not stop. How can one get lousy in a beautiful place like this?
But no matter. We might never have known each
I had to shave his armpits and even then the itching
did not stop. How can one get lousy in a beautiful place like this?
But no matter. We might never have known each
other so intimately, Boris and I, had it not been for the lice.
Boris has just given me a summary of his views.
He is a weather prophet. The weather will continue bad, he says. There will be more calamities, more death, more despair. Not the slightest indication of a change anywhere. The cancer of time is eating us away. Our heroes have killed themselves, or are killing themselves. The hero, then, is not Time, but Timelessness. We must get in step, a lock step, toward the prison of death. There is no escape.
The weather will not change.
He is a weather prophet. The weather will continue bad, he says. There will be more calamities, more death, more despair. Not the slightest indication of a change anywhere. The cancer of time is eating us away. Our heroes have killed themselves, or are killing themselves. The hero, then, is not Time, but Timelessness. We must get in step, a lock step, toward the prison of death. There is no escape.
The weather will not change.
