Men are strange beings have days that are variants of any day and others store in boxes through traces or bus tickets. We could put the solemnity of an equinox or reinvent before sunset. The same circumstances would give us the same sense of inconsistency to others but that would make us unique. Today is like tomorrow and would be the same as yesterday. I always felt trapped by the expiration representing the Hudson River, that is not now, it comes from I checked some old photographs of the river at dusk, even before knowing who would come to New York and I knew that should feel your scent on my face. I could say that theories are armed and the homogeneity of the universe or just invent for free.
Sometimes the distances are like puzzles that originate and close concentric and oblique, that way I was walking toward Fulton Street to the Brooklyn Bridge and saw near the Hudson River. It was very late, drizzling, I stood on the wooden railing, I felt the wind as I crawled into space and I remembered a dream of lies and I wrote. The wind hit my face and I knew it was a lie and I cried. I understand why they are childish dream gods and mortal men dream that they are gods because they do not want to be childlike. Rilke remembered stalked by a choir of angels in his Duino Elegies strangely Blake fighting with angels legionaries of the abyss and realized that they had their own demons but turned them into angels.
The city I feel great and stalker, but that night I felt his company, including its streets and sidewalks felt his loneliness as mine as yours. Their paths took me to the bridge across the river Hudson. It was eleven and the bridge was still being passed, I marveled at their equity to accept all at that time was our us in his body and pretended to understand the indifference of human beings. And I knew it was nothing in the instance of time, nothing conspicuous as the other and did not want to know more. For the eternal does not arise until you seek is so ephemeral and sailed on into nothingness. I threw a sheet and floated towards the river cautiously swinging in good shape trying to be loved by the wind to not break but just disintegrated.
Then I remembered the words of Rilke, who would hear me if I shouted between angels ... among people who only sees itself. I thought what is forgiveness, and Blake told me is the abyss of men who do not love . I merged into combat these verses and realized something very simple that only forgive those who love. I loved a lot and I do not regret it.
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pending Rainer Maria Rilke's Duino Elegies his book William Blake and his book The marriage between heaven and hell, two poets who took his verses, and I leave in italics.
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