It is a pitch-black night. The stars are shining bright but their glimmer can not be seen. The clouds are hanging like drapes of indigo translucency. Heavy soviet shabby indigo drapes. The moon is nowhere to be seen. The stale wind is blowing over the marsh. There is no sound to be heard. No one can tell if it is winter or summer. So strange are these times.
A fly starts its ascension towards the unseen moon. As soon as it appears on the horizon a green nasty toad appears and swallows it in a quick gulp. That is the end of the poor fly.
A dragonfly also appears on the horizon and manages to escape the hungry toad. The toad blinks with its huge eyes towards the dim glimmer of what might have been a dragonfly's invisible wings. The toad does not hear anything, nor it sees anything, very well. The toad does not care. We know because of its soulless expression. Its huge but stupid brain knows nothing of the stars in the sky, other than what flew right before its nose. Some people are like that.
People on the street are rushing by. They don't see the moon or the stars, they simply run on like a river. They bury their noses in gutters. They are worried, they are disquiet, they are disturbed in their sleep, they wake up at 3 a.m. in the morning thinking the same thoughts they have already digested the previous morning. Sleepwalkers all of them. The streetcar is running toward us but we don't want to catch it, so we let it go. While standing there watching it disappear we cannot help but fall in love, and falling in love becomes an amusement, a game. We are disillusioned and have fallen prey to self-deception. We think we can love. We end up knowing nothing of one another.
We end up complete strangers.
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