Monologue with the night [12]

 
He still keeps a diary. For words have the power to disperse the shadows from around the objects they name. Even if it’s compromised, in everyday life, language often retains only what is pure. – Pierrot le fou.
 
Yes, for me, outside of words, is what but a shadow ? Time or the passing of its makes everything seems less important, in some moments I feel I, you, he, they, the crowd and the mob, are so equal. But it’s just the tiredness, the after effects of defeat, yet if we look into the truth, it’s always there, what’s changed ? Nothing. The difference is still there. The pigs and the clowns are immortals, they reborn every day. The poison’s still here. And the sadness remains.
 
When this indifferent sea of time drowns me, to complete a trace of black in a watery night, even the sadness will not remain. But the words, though little and maybe dwindling, they will stand.
 
Somehow,
certainly.
 
.

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