Contact Prince Papa Jan
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Sinner knows anguish. Sinner also knows delight. And emptiness. Perhaps they also know love – through its spasms. Through the hurt and delight which it gives them to take away their freedom and maybe to give them that feeling of a bird in flight.
Crucified on the Thirty-three Crossroads. Accidentally, in a way, if there be accidental chances at all, I fancied her genuinely. I have always desired her even if I did not yet know her; even if was not fully aware of my precise wishes. I thought simply I wished to paint, thought I had never in earnest regarded until then my dabbling in oils. I thought it was simply because I was stretched on the cross of the Age of Christ, the time when existence becomes a philosophy which in turn ceases to be a tempting day-dream and becomes the bread, the fists, the lust for life. My empty canvas was like an erotic challenge and I fingered the brush as I would finger a woman. It was then that I felt excitement – powerful, lustful, deadly. And all things changed all of a sudden. It was the start. It was the starting instant. Without realizing it, I pledged myself to the woman of my tragedy and my most potent desires, to the woman, angel and devil in one, the woman whom I was to love. She was still an erotic challenge, lost in the distant mist of the future, like a white canvas almost untouched.
“Papa Jan,” I heard myself whisper, “stop it! Stop it where you are!”
Icy creeps, then excitement… Again creeps of horror, again excitement. The hand with the brush trembled on the canvas. I wanted to touch it and was aware of its pointlessness, of its enormous cost but sinner knows pain and is prepared to pay dearly for delight. I was tempted by the blank canvas. It resembled a naked girl suddenly appearing in a dark forest who like me was apprehensive yet desiring; who like me wished to tempt and be tempted; who thinks she genuinely wants to keep virgin but this very thought merely whets her appetite for sin. She opens her lips as if to say “I can’t do it” but from her lips no sound flows; instead, they slowly come close to mine. For their part, for no reason at all, they, too, fear the hot contact and likewise try to eject the simple sentence: “I can’t do it “ but no sound is emitted. Swollen with tender furies and sweetness, drunken, the clips draw close. The abyss is inevitable. Before it, volition loses the power to chose. Hundreds of baby-pythons creep on the skin. They are re-incarnated into neuronal knods, trembling on the threshold of touch. Reason is drunken. Lips touch and that is the end. Another life begins. In fact, real life starts where values collapse and are replaced by new ones. I saw that the light administering of the brush is feminine. Or rather a feminine nipple, a tiny part of it. I was turned on. Aroused and horrified at what was taking place. I was experiencing something almost crazy. For a sole moment I lost any self awareness. It was as though I was possessed. Or insane. The tripod, the blank canvas and the oils used to belong to a friend I had buried several months before. He was Nikolai Geshev, a well-known Bulgarian painter. I had been a patron of his and had great admiration for him. The unspent stuff, sad and melancholy, reminded me of him. I often shed tears. They were the only refuge where, alone, I could conduct an imaginary dialogue with my deceased friend and moved me even to speedily do what I could to rid myself of the sorrow inspired by this temple of incompleteness. I often had a cup of tea with them as I used to do with him once but had never made actual use of them.
A day back it would have seemed sacrilegious. Something had happened with me. I do not know what. I simply felt her presence. She drove me insane. She whispered to me to pick up the brush and apply it to the canvas so she could reveal her nakedness through it… I was trembling. Cold sweat drenched my whole body!
My hand was shaking at the canvas. Millimetres away from it. I dared not touch it. Nor dared I move away. The ants of sexual arousal tore my flesh apart morbidly and deliciously, as whenever I touched a new love, only more so this time. I had a vision of the naked stranger in the forest whose lips kept coming closer, wishing but failing to utter “I can’t do it!” Shivering speechlessly, I muttered:
“Touch me, dearest! This a delightful dream!”
“Just a dream!” she said, melancholy and intoxicated with an erotic surge.
The pupils of my eyes were fixed on the picture in which, mysterious and barely stripped, the bust was visible. I stood before her excited as never before, horrified at something incomprehensible and something desired. I touched he again with the brush and resumed painting – making love to her in fact – though I did not know her yet.
“Who are you ?” I managed to whisper before the prolonged trance started while I kept on painting but in fact was travelling towards her unawares. I slowly moved my face toward the oil painting. Something opened. The womb. I was being born. I was a baby. A baby who was hungrily sinking his lips into his mother’s breast and then everything developed at breakneck speed. Life speeds on like a racing car. I again pressed my lips into the breast but I had now grown up and the breast was not my mother’s but my beloved’s. The one whom I met after succumbing to the temptation to paint. I was kissing her breasts while she, groaning like mad, went on answering my question who she was:
“The one you made a woman! The one you made… The one…”
The lunatic moon tore at the breasts I was kissing… It rent me apart… We were standing in the atelier but several years had now passed since that memorable evening when I decided to take up painting… I unstuck my lips from her bosom. I took up the brush, the same one, but was now painting not upon the canvas but upon the breast I painted the Moon. The lunar orgasm of the full moon. After it came the new moon and the dark. I now knew well who she was and sensed we were soon to part though I could not, did not want to and feared to admit it.
She was called Irinia and had long been the renowned painter Papa Jan.
It was then that I saw her!
The same one!
The one radiating feminine power!
Destructive and creative!
The woman who give both birth and death!
The same one with the radiant fingers!
The one I felt certain I would see when I stood before my first canvas!
The one who came to me in a dream after my first encounter with Materius Rosenkreuzer!
The one wh so much disturbed me and inspired me over the past few days!
The one who walked the tightrope over the precipice!
She was hazelnut in colour! Transparent tender skin, a long neck, a hetaera carved by Phidias. Juicy lips, full and thirsty for endless kisses. Cheekbones, protruding like a priestess’s who might have been living for ages in the Himalayas with a Haitian tan. Aura, swollen like the Tower of Babylon. The splendid breasts seemed to have a life of their own, conducting, as they moved, the harmonious melody of infinite Nature. She moved with the grace of a ballerina. Her exquisite erogenous hemispheres were never chastened by corset or brassiere and her nipples blossomed under her lace blouse like juicy figs. Perfect bearing of a fashion model who has just climbed down from the catwalk of the world. Willowy lime-tree! A crystal glass, so delicate that it could turn into powder at every touch!
Spectacles, out of which peered the freshed, the liveliest and the deepest feminine eye!
A fleshly metaphor!A metaphor of the whole inspiration of man’s history!
Our fingers touched!
I felt the ebb and flow of energy…
I endured everything I suffered with Irine while I was painting the picture: “Two rituals Over The Precipice”, also bearing the name “Our Unanimity”, the thirteenth of the cycle “Unanimity” which I began in my earliest creative period. I painted with facility, with a sense of intoxication, comfort and radiance, the images of my friends, fusing intothose of their beloved girls. I felt the surface and outer image of their love while I was recreating it as love on the canvas. A part of me was with the lovers who imprinted their images upon my canvases and this partexperienced the liveliest, reckless, purest, holiest and brilliant of that love. I called them “the lovers” in my paintings, depicting them as unity of thought: their faces overlapped to become one and the same creature. So I painted Lucy and Chris, Ivan and Geri, Dilyan and Kali, Stephen and Dea and many others… The portraits were seven when I felt that I would soon have to paint my own face which merged, yet distanced itself from that of Irine. I realized with horror that unity of thought did not mean unity of existence. Even a creature such as lovers are can live in a schizophrenic contradiction with its own self, inhabiting two different worlds, though they became twelve while Maestro Prince Papa Jan had long parted from his Irine. The fatal number of the cycle again went to him. It was I who again drew the fatal lot!
“IF YOU ARE A FATAL PERSONALITY, EACH AND EVERY INSTANT OF YOUR LIFE EACH AND EVERY STEP YOU MAKE AND EACH AND EVERY DAY OF THE WEEK AND EACH AND EVERY NUMBER IS FATAL! IF YOU ARE FATAL, STOP MEDITATING UPON WHAT’S FATAL! ACCEPT IT, IF YOU CAN. LAUGH AT RATHER!IF YOU HAVE THE STRENGTH TO FIGHT IT, DO SO AND IF YOU POSSESS REASON TRIUMPH OVER IT!”
On my palette I was mixing hues of earth and ebony, of platinum and of dusk, of old gold and humus, of sea and air , of vintage wine and of blood, of dove and moon. I searched for the appropriate solution in order to convey her tan. I was looking for the perfect swarthiness, brimming with life. The colour of a bull-fighter’s jealousy and Gypsy rhythm, of visions of Gaugin and of a day on exotic shores, of life in a body blessed by the sun. The colour of a frivolous harmony wrapping a restive and profoundly exploratory spirit.
Such was Irina’s image. Enveloped and blessed with beauty, tender tanned skin, a spirit, unquiet and roaming from a world into another world from one category of the impossible to the next.Essence, vibrating on the metaphysical threshold.
She was like a scarlet dawn on a July morning, tender and exciting under the caressing skin of a woman, born to be caressed. Her turbulent spirit and her fragile beauty were in interaction and symbiosis. Such as her are born once in a thousand millennia in order to divide empires and die, bitten by a snake, beside their beloved.
They attract and tempt with fruit of knowledge their dear friend. They win masculine fights and lose feminine struggles.They inspire and are adored. And her features were adorable. She had adorable features. They were chiselled by millennia of genetic play, perhaps even by God and with the help of the Devil even in a Phidian manner. Dignified yet of this earth. Intellectual, yet suffused with eroticism. A high forhead with a pronounced hemisphere in the centre. A perfect nose like that of a Roman goddess made of marble. Slightly modernized, less heroic and much more feminine. So dignified yet far more tender. Such as her it would have been impossible for the ancient sculptors to produce out of stone. Eyes, even if Asiatically elongated, constantly wondering, touched one and did not radiate the severity, typical of the painted eyes of the far East. With a natural brown colour, exciting with warmth and when I last saw he after her return from America – instead of glasses she wore contact lenses coloured bluish-green.
“Do I look to you like a toad?” she then laughed.
“You are like a kitten which purring and nestling its body can also sink its teeth into you,” I said and when her eyes expressed more childish wonder, widening more than ususal, I could not help bursting into laughter and embracing her.
She was never boring.
I painted her eye and the brown overlapped with green. Her true nature overlapped with the cosmetics of the instant. She was the woman – half-maid
still wishing she had been born a boy, maybe because of her professorial title in philosophy and despite her landmark works in books like The Body of Christ. She succumbed to the global insinuation and attempted to re-cast her divine beauty in tune with the times. Green eyes became her but the green upon her retina was glass. Her America in the foothills of Vitosha where we used to make love was glass. The almost imperceptible accent of her intonation was glass. Refinement upon naturalness. In conflict. I felt I, too, was covered in glass. I felt I saw her through it and she sees me like that. We see our palms touch, our lips kiss, but both palms and lips touch glass. I mixed the brown and the green and in her eyes an unfamiliar pageant of colours started playing in them. So beautiful, dually expressive, playful, simultaneously human and divine, sensuous, yet reasonable, intellectually frivolous, frolicsome – as it suited her to be. I fully understood her only now, in front of the portrait when she was actually far from me:
“Irine,” I exclaimed and it seemed as if her voice within my own self responded:
“Didn’t you realize, Janino, that my life belongs to myself as well, and is also on loan, that my nature is personal, yet part of the existence of the world; that my beauty comes naturally but conforms to the aesthetic frame forged throughout the centuries; that I love you but part of me is too big, too much of the universe, too chaotic to be contained once and for all within the heart of a single person. Haven’t you realized, Janino, that my eyes have ever been of glass and protein, created by man as well as God, brown and green. The brown and the green in them have ever been mixed in an ineffable variegation with which you are in love. You have loved me and will love me still just because I am dappled. Because you can always have me and not have me. Even if you were to conquer the world you will lose the soul that loves you. Were you to have this soul, you wouldn’t have the world. I myself am not completely in possession of myself but am forever gathering up myself, looking for something, classifying, re-arranging, discovering myself every new day, dissolving, scattering and endlessly chasing after my own self. You wanted to possess me completely and that’s why you lost me.”
I painted her lips, full and wide. Her cheekbones austere yet tender in warmth, trembling from eternal emotion: before our latest embrace, before the metaphysical threshold, before the world adventure, before the next trip. A heathen goddess, not of marble but made of flesh and blood…
How I wish to be Phidias now and deifying her, to sculpt her out of marble and cease loving her! How I wanted at that hour to build her shadow into a piece of marble or myself to become marble, or at least my heart to become marble! I could not! Painting her, I re-lived all my suffering for her, all the happiness with her, all our Lunar orgasms, up and downs and thousands of verse we dedicated to each other. I painted her body, ethereal presence of a doe, gentle like a warm endearment. It was perfect – svelte, with uplifted ample full bosom with yearning nipples like flames of fire.The warm mound above her thighs. The trembling fibres which, moving, seemed to say, “O, Jan…”
I ruffled her chestnut hair in the wind because Irine was the offspring of Wisdom and the Wind; of and ancient philosopher and a damned bacchante, of a holy yet vibrant maid and the temptation, sent by the Devil. I also painted the dejected crease under her lower lip. I felt sad but felt that even in her happiest moods she had been slightly melancholy. She could not possess everything and still less could she abandon the desire to have everything.
“IF YOU CANNOT POSSESS EVERYTHING YOU CAN AT LEAST ABANDON THE DESIRE TO DO SO! DO IT, UNLESS YOU WANT TO BE SAD EVEN AMIDST THE MOST BLISSFUL MOOD!””
With chestnut hair of dark gold… Around each thread of hair there shone an aura of the colour of dark ochre, it was modulated and made her hair look lighter than it really was.
Her face modulated into mine. It is difficult to pain the portrait of such a spiritual person as Irina. No matter how successful it is, something is forever incomplete, unsaid and leading towards the next and the one after the next… The 2013th, if like and then more and more… To infinity. That portrait I could never complete… A fictitious finale to a work of art which could never be complete. When I posed the question in the preceding chapter as I was sending a message: “If there is no end why the beginning?” It immediately occurred to me to ask “What is the beginning? What is the end?” Sometimes it is hard to say. Sometimes it is impossible to say. Who starts a love affair?The spark in whose heart precedes the one in the other Which body ignites lust in the other? Is there a first at all? Is that at all possible if it is a question about unanimity, unison, harmony?In its most perfect ways love is a circle between two persons. That circle often changes shape. It can turn into a triangle or polygon even. The geometrical figure can occasionally break up. It can be utterly erased by the rubber of the absolute of world existence but has always been a circle. I circle where beginning is inconceivable. A circle like a circular technique of painting where forms are consequences of explosions of energy
like the Big Bang and only after they take place can there be any beginning which had been lacking prior to that. Love between two people cannot originate in only one of the two. The objects depicted circularly cannot be each one’s beginning. verything is a beginning therefore everything is endless.
So, without ending, Irina’s likeness fused with mine. The elongated eyes were recreated in mine. Cinsiderably wider. They resembled the eyes of a an owl, fixed on things invisible to the multitude but for the fact that their colour was blue, which meant they very much loved light to be part of the life of an owl. My eyes almost completely expressed my identity. Like the owl I am a philosopher yet I would taher not give myself to endless contemplation so I would not become captive to the perennial darkness of the deepest categories only to be able to discern what others do not while missing the hole in the road at my feet. I love wisdom but more than it I love love istelf. Beauty is the gravitational attaraction for the lonely hearts. My eyes combine the bird of love and the heart of loneliness. Myself, I am both. I paint my eyes with milores (Paris blue)…
After that I choose dense paints. The most natural which are closest to nature, to the earth. My flesh is infinitely of this earth, bursting with health – the flesh not of an animal but of a plant. Melancholy is the twentieth century: without elevating the spirit it has turned with conveniences and easily accessible poisons the greater part of its offspring more akin to plants which the gentlest breeze would break and even uproot. I am lucky not to be one of them. I bite like a bulldog.When I decide to do it I tear wires with my teeth. My star number before the audience is the crunching of beer-bottle tops.I have not a muscle on me that isn’t well developed. I impress most with the muscles of my face. They cannot be developed in fitness-centres. There isn’t a muscle-building system for them and no diet has been evolved to improve them. Especially sculpted and impressively swollen are the muscles on my temples. On the faces of many you can’t even notice them.The temple muscle is the one most used in the human body: both in speaking and in chewing. That is why it is difficult to strain it, and therefore difficult to develop. Mine is quite developed – as if I were of a quite different breed. And that is a fact: I am a predator. Predators are the first hunters and I am one. My blood group proves it. A hunter of emotion, love, beauty, world glances, lanscapes, naked bodies, happiness.
My lips are full, expressive of joy, juiciness and sex, comparatively narrow but my smile is broad and with all my thirty-two teeth so I am born, a birthmark of unusualness, serried like a row of pearls.
My skull is massive like a statue of Zeus.
My forhead is shaped like Irina’s. It is high, and bulging in the middle. I am partially bald. This strongly attracts the opposite sex. From afar, women, nymphs hungry for something else sense that everything is owing to the excess of testosteron in my organism. My virility seems inherited. My grandfather created my father at an advanced age. The press more than once has written stories about Papa Jan having ten thousand women in his life. I am on my way of achieving the – by now – well-known record of Inspector Megre’s creator, George Simenon, who had twenty thousand in the course of his seventy-year-long life. My virility is hyper-contemplative of the tender sex. Of my sexuality people say: a global predator. Of me the great conductor of the twentieth and the twenty-first century Konstantin Krimetz created the philosophical-sexual term the Great Fuke. The remaining hair has retained its slightly rusty hue. I don’t have a single white hair yet have experienced quite a few pleasures – as well as displeasures – from people who grow grey. My experience is truly enviable. My beard frames and symbolizes my face. It is rustier than the hair. It is thick and is like that of a bogatyr. It is Assyrian-Babylonian, frequently met with among the Thracians. After all, I am Orpheus’s ancestor! To paint my skin I dissolve natural sienna into all colours of the rainbow. More important are the adventures which I have helped preserve the natural colour of my skin. The dissolvant in this case is life. I use natural sienna, my portrait has to be close to my true image. I paint my nose, well-shaped, of normal mass for such a face. In profile one can see the almost imperceptible curve on its tip. Looked at frontally it is triangular. My ears are small – the final part of my face. They are covered with soft fuzz. Sometimes I want to grow out of their hairs outre moustachio similar to Salvadore Dali’sI started shaving those hairs in order to obtain such extraordinary moustachios – an expression of the exotic nature of Prince Papa Jan.
Well, friends, whims are what they are! I cannot see all of them achieved. In the picture my ears are without the Dali moustachios.
I shape my cheekbones. Lower down my face is broader. I said I resemble a mongrel of a vicious breed and I really do but right now I am inclined to make my likeness resemble Polyphemus. That sinister and one-eyed giant from Greek mythology.
( Freudian aside: The one-eyed giant used to symbolize unsatisfied male organ).
Besides a beast-like giant he was a suffering creature, in love with the sea-nymph Galatea…
“Well, my dear Galatea! Why did you re-kindle after so long a time the spirit of suffering the body of the giant?”
“Couldn’t the spirit of suffering be the spirit of the divine, the spirit of the legend into which we are to turn?”
I am melancholy, though big. Body has a rock’s hardness capable of fighting all hardships in life but it is also fresh bread which I hand out to feed the hungry.It is forever fighting and winning against life’s odd. Its muscles are torn apart, filled like wine-skins with vintage brew – the raw flesh of life – it feeds upon it but is also like wax melting with the contact with a soft line of poetry. The muscle fibres carry a rather heavy scent of modernity but my eyes weep when I realize that my tears can slate the thirst of the needy. Even the Jericho trumpet of the rock-sounding modernity cannot shake it but love always can. It is corpulent, fascinating and always ‘there’ because it is called upon to intil life in the home and in the memory of each new friend, acquaintance or girlfriend who can hear the melody of my words and dance to it. It’s the body of man of few words and sure of victory with the soul of a human being who has suffered countless defeats.
In this bear of a body there is coolness of a snake, love of freedom of an eagle and affection of a mother.
The body would have exploded with its energy were it not made divine by art which humbles it.
It would have lost its head completely before the divine were it not for the love which makes it sympathize with fellow human beings.
It would have become effaced among them, could it not give proud appellations to its image and paint it.
It would have met Narcissus’s end were it not for Irine.
One loves oneself, enamoured of the echo, which one has turned into god.
The exiled one.
The one before whom we officiate.
The one we desecrate.
The one we follow.
The one who inspires me to paint.
Francis Bacon thought three discoveries helped Europe conquer the world, viz., printing, gunpowder and the compass.
The discoveries are a fact.
Another fact is the world conqueror’s lust. For such a one like her, the one I have painted and loved. The one for whose sake paper was discovered since it is discovered solely for poetry devoted to her – not for blueprints of artillery. For her sake was the compass invented viz., not to point to the directions of the world but to direct me to her alone. Gunpowder was discovered for her sake as well because it was a chance discovery in the search for the link with the Temptress: She. And this link was found unawares. With gunpowder and lunar orgasm it conquers the globe. Without compass subdues the four corners of the earth as it does all sheets of paper since even the Relativity Theory, read by me is a love poem…
I was the man set aside for her.
I was a free bird, too.
I was also the melancholy one-eyed giant Polyphemus.
Viktor Bugai also painted me one-eyed in the triptych he dedicated to me. On it he depicted me as Cyclops whose single eye is the symbol of the only way: forward!
(A Freudian remark: since we’ve made clear the symbolism of the one-eyed giant, we must add that Papa Jan’s, especially, is so significant in his life and work and so clearly manifested in his aura that it was not for nothing that he had been painted with one eye by the Russian artist in the painting “The Generous Possessor of Russia”. A one-eyed giant conquers all of Russia. Homer wouldn’t have allowed himself a topic like that.)
(A remark on the Freudian remark: Freud got it wrong. The penis symbol is not the one-eyed giant but the penis is a symbol of him.)
The discerning third eye seeing the unseen! (Life-giving!)
(A Nikhilist’s Note: The giant and the anatomical organ resembling him have nothing in common!)
(A note from 13,000 women: they have, they have!)
(A note of the dadaist: Freud and the giant do have something in common but the resemblance is not in the picture.)
The mysterious sense perception which sees things unperceived by the eyes. The ability to have a hunch about the future, to perceive invisible things in my interlocutors and to peer into the past of Nature and and the universe. With my psycho-kinetic energy I have cured thousands of sick people suffering from all sorts of diseases. My aura is an ambition to encompass all the universe. A thrill, perceived hundreds of kilometres a portion of which I leave with every person, instil into each object, relieve bodies, cure souls. I instil my energy in my paintings and through my messages I will reach billions of people on earth. It is half-serious, half-humorous, yet real like my story. Colourful like a painting. Brilliant like a slight insanity, similar to the one I often exhibit.
I continue to dissolve the paints on my face. I dissolve it seems all landscapes reflected in them till finally my face again acquires its natural colour betraying life and outpouring of energy.
The face on the portrait is overstrained, like an affected galaxy in my throat. When my facial muscles are tense I relax by farting. That is why I fart several times before each business appointment or rendezvous. Unlike Salvador Dali who crowed like a cock while farting, I bray like a donkey.I can fart loud at any time of the day or night even when in bed with a woman.
I stand amazed.
I did not look for naturalism but I achieved it. My skin does in fact shine. The sun’s rays play upon my flexed muscles.
I realize that reflecting the world upon myself I have imprinted myself upon the world.
IF YOU WANT TO IMPRINT YOURSELF UPON THE WORLD, BEFORE THAT IMPRINT THE WORLD UPON YOURSELF!
Loneliness is cured with searching. Even if you do not know you are lonely you instinctively search and without knowing you cure yourself. Now that all is ended I realize that better than ever
No, it has not come to an end. When does it all end? I am still alive and I ache keenly. What I want is that everything should come to an end.
I am walking in a certain direction. The surf laughs. I am pulling a black cow on a chain. I bought it a few hours ago. Before that I wanted to kill myself. So that the pain should cease… The cow entangled its horns in the branches. Now… I entered the empty belly. I tore the belly apart and took out the guts. I took off my clothes. I felt pleasantly warm. The world ceased to exist. I was not yet born. I was in my mother’s womb. I still did not have a name. I still did not have a gender and could not fall in love but lived in love and warmth. The umbilical chord was soon to be severed and I was to start living in loneliness which I would treat by searching. I was to sink my lips into my mother’s bosom and a moment after, still hungrier, in the bosom of my beloved – the vile, the savage and sublime, the shivering and the cool, the deceptive and the genuine, the cursed and the blessed, mine and the one belonging to others, the only and the one of many, the bitter-sweet love. The one I looked for the one I found.
The one I lost and couldn’t have lost.
The one I saw in the picture and who was not there.
The erotic and the selfish.
My fantasy had produced that creature.
Was it all true.
Did I not invent her, wanting to bring back the memories of the conception, as I curled myself in the belly of the black cow.
I dozed off… The lights of old memories flickered. They belonged to an earlier life which I could perhaps forget as soon as I saw the light of day.
I hear the whining of hungry dogs, smelling fresh blood.
Will they tear me apart along with the remains of the cow?
No. I’m not afraid.
In some way they seem to me like the passions of which I was not afraid either, though I realized they could tear me apart.
I feel the closeness of the furious dogs and tremble in dulcet expectation.
Just as at the time in the lift…
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