he died, this poet, who looks ugly to me, so ugly I could never love him, but loved him nevertheless because of his death. he died when I fell sick with restlessness and a weight that was capable of dragging down the whole world on this side of the planet, while you, in your dreamy estate of guiltlessness, reigned over a giant mouth on the other side of the planet: I don’t believe in giants: I tell you it’s all made up: of dwarfs and their servants and their masters and their pets and their mouths and teeth and in endless hunger for ugliness they build pyramids of ugly children, pile them skyscraper-high, because the bigger the better the illusion of mountain streams, peaks and umbilical cords drinking our consciousness. all this I tell you so that I forget what I remember and forget what is a secret that I am not to remember: if someone found out it might burst, the bubble of coins that we tossed, of songs that we repeated to explain the difference, endlessly the difference, the difference that turns into dreams, sand rubbing our skin, all that makes us real, in repetition real. deep down rays of light glide through the universe’s recursions just to hit us right in the face, to hang us upside down: we float, our feet tied to otherness: I can see you float next to the brother, who is bigger, who is overwhelmingly huge, who is more than you will ever grow into, and you have to run from the rays of his moon, reflections of a beautiful mother, who is too beautiful, no flesh and blood can be that beautiful, it must be an illusion, you have to run without difference into a tiny moment, a fragment, all it needs is this tiny moment where we switch off the light, where day glides into night and you and I recognize that you and I look different in darkness, different and it is alright because now every thing that can be seen is for you and me to forget every thing that is bright. we close our eyes and look into each other, where we remain, endlessly gazing into the darkness of a starless, moonless, otherless night.