The man suspected the middle of cities, the middle of ruins
in the mountains. He lived in a building whose foundation stood firmly on the
rubble of another building, in the middle of a city. In the middle of a city, the man could
tolerate contradictions and give careful thought to disorderly things, and this
upset him. On his worst days, the man suspected himself of everything from
clumsiness to utter failure as a person. He asked himself: “Why, why, why?”
In the afternoons he drew little naked dwellers in the middle
of ruins in the mountains. He drew them cooling on a bed of ivy under the
pressure of the sun. Each dweller signified a past memory, a mistake in the
man’s life. He hated each one of them. They lounged, with leisure, and without
shame in the middle of the mountains. In the middle of the mountains, a tree could fall and it would mean nothing, or everything.
The man, when he considered the dwellers, thought: I harm
certain others. Because of this, he did not assign them names. In this way, he
could begin to forget the harm he would do to them later.
The man, he had lived, like many of his friends, to expect
ordinary nothing. But hairless spots
began to appear on his head, and these were not ordinary. They were a
condition, rare and terrible, and they were gruesome. They brought the man much
attention, and he could not be other than a sad thought.
He believed that everyone sought a center. The center was
not the middle, but all middles had a center. But his, the man believed, was a
remnant of dust driven by rage like water in a basin inside his stomach. He was
an angry man, and he feared this part of him.
In the evenings, he felt his heart eating beyond the open
window, contemplating an interference. But an interference did not occur, so
the man was able to tear the dwellers into pieces and savor them on his tongue.
In this way, was he able to feel his center slightly restored.
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