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"What's the matter with you? Haven't woken up yet? Aren't you ill perhaps?
Do show your tongue. Come on. Get up and get dressed!"
Maurice Maeterlinck, The Blue Bird
Show exactly which way the lava had passed or at least
point with your hand at the direction so that this place like
all the places on which things happen would not suddenly
start to remind us of a partition that the snails had cleared
in the leafs. Time makes miracles: it reduces the effect
of reality and not only volcanoes extinguish in the cataclysms
of indifference. It would be wrong to call the endless chain
of replacements of everything with everything oblivion. We are

not guilty. Eagles spread their wings like flags. Their nature wins:
it divides the space into the plots of power and with each take off
it pierces the indigo of the dusk, with each flight over the frame of
densely compressed mountains it lets you know that behind the
picture the night is swallowing there is another sky smeared with the
colors of the liver. The fear of crucified gods lets out the smell of
urine and blood, while hunger doesn't ask: What's the matter with
you? Haven't woken up yet? Aren't you ill perhaps? Get up!
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