Neither you were, nor will you be, shadow of sleep, hope, forever made up, apocryphal wrapping of excessive nights, scented evanescence of sunny shadows. We invented that love, pure poetry, splendid communion, gleaming in dementia, the eternal promise of shared verses, full life outside commentary. Over time, structuring solitudes, we discover, already impure, that reality springs--- from the unthinking soul, from a bitter self of its own, without fears or victories, without verses, without defeat, an elusive self, oblivious to the voice of others. So there remains my experience of shady solitudes, as the unobvious reflection of a suffering self, who, by wandering through dark corners, lost all his faith in the love you created.
