a European life

Elephants stomp around me. The earth shakes, cigarettes burn and smells of blood and meat pervade the air. Life's circle is complete in this very life itself: after sex, there is nothing but the next day. After the next day, there is nothing but death. After death, there is nothing. In this life are stalls. Stalls of marvellous things, but so many that I don't know which stall to look into. I am a slave of choices. When I will get tired of one choice, then I will betake myself to another stall, another set of wares. Everyone is a merchant. Everyone is on display or is the displayer. Nothing is outside of the shopwindows. Everything is reduced to a rational minimum. Everything, you and me, mine and yours, and the unknown, everything is encompassed by it. Nothing is unknown, though it may not be known. For every unknown, there will be a known reason. For every reason, there will be a wealth of information. That most essential ware, that priceless commodity. Everyone sells it, everyone buys it. Your heart has become a papier mâché of all this talk. Silence is nowhere, except in resistance. Sometimes, a cigarette butt will scorch some portion of this collage covering your spirit, and then suddenly you will feel a corner of sky peeping in at your soul. For a moment. Before the next raucous, drunk laughs of liberty and equality will drown out that, maybe for ever. You never know. I spend meaningless days on end, thirsty for Your one drop of love.

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