No comprehension came from the white eyes before me. But it was not that hard to grasp. It was as simple as a green ghost floating out of the blades of grass as we inhale them, or as the subtle chimes one can listen to as butterflies rise and fall through porcelain pirouettes, and leave the air with the shape and color of a Han masterpiece. Nonetheless, the bears will not sleep until my umbrella can cover them all. But it is so small, the aluminum skeleton of a spider. Dead spider and crying flea, jumping through the cracks of my darkened wall, burnt by incense and cigarettes. Pale blue light remains through my fingers as I try to guess the screams of your figure under these cold, soft silk robes. it will fall and whistle towards the floor. But your body will always stay still, my young marble soul.
An intellectual party must never miss two things. First, communist propoaganda. Second, paintings. Violent paintings, traces that can be seen, like the marks a whale leaves over the water. Night will never fall if we can see the oil of the stars and feel the waves of the dying sea, the blood of the Saint Sebastian in pain, or the skin of the ronin who burns in his armor. The people will laugh for a while, talk about how art is bourgeois an discuss Breton's radical absurdism. They will always miss a few points about color in the middle of their exquisite corpses, and will struggle not to notice how they all have the same baroque and needlessly showy style. That is no style. It is as stylish as the complex tunnels ants build, when they have enough space to live and simply want to keep invaders thinking. The smart ones should fill the holes with silver and copper. Then they would unearth the blazing bush Moses saw when he fled the void within.