You hear crimson in blue; you understand warmth through coldness and all of it comes in half-grey tones, in cold blue whispers that no one understands but you. So I speak, and you listen in just that way. And how does she listen? She… listens with her tympanal apparatus most beautifully. She listens precisely on the most difficult frequencies. She knows how to listen… And she wants to listen, although I don’t know why… Well, why would she? “Because that’s just how it is,” she’ll probably answer, and then once again she’ll sail her sailing canoe up the Amazon to hunt Siberian koala bears with a suction-cup pistol made by Philips, bought from an Argentine greengrocer’s shop standing in the middle of the Gobi Desert, while out shopping with him... And I will return to my tiny little house with its 523 rooms, no windows, and a single storey with a basement. As usual, I’ll sit down in the dining room to catch a hammerhead shark in a three-litre bathtub standing on a lawnmower and made of blue Panasonic toilet paper, bought from an Argentine greengrocer’s shop standing in the middle of the Gobi Desert during the nicest shopping trip of my life. And afterwards we’ll tell each other all about it. You’ve driven me crazy epistolographically. You have.
By rights, this piece should be resting soundly with its sisters in Garden Out of Dust. How it slipped away, I can’t really say.
Moreover, I performed un triage in which some insignificant writings got scissors’ work, but this one deserved the tiroir, among the bien-aimées, every time.
So, dear reader, this was a rescapée making her fugue here, in preference to the company of my five-star drawer.
Those who evidently landed in Garden Out of Dust:
