The gentle Azur of a high sea at autumn stretched before me on my cliff seat of your dreams. You had just emerged from the sea, woman from the sea, and offered me your ashes to consider, as a presage of entwined tales. I inspected them carefully, delicately, softly – in no way will you find me treading on any soft dreams or sincere propositions. The sea speaks to us at dawn, while the waves crash on rocks that could be our grave.
You are not Madame Sosostris. Or at least, I hope you are not. But I sit, cross-kneed and listen to the ashes that you have offered speak of fat cats with short tails, of a kind of nothingness of being – impression #2 – and of some electronic band that someone some point might have spoken of to me before. I was before. Before I was. I before was, except after her. This hurt kills me daily.
Lost souls in hot ashes – so fresh? You see this scar on my arm? I got it when I ran into a leopard in the lonely Bush, the veldt of some southern country, the heel of the cradle of civilisation. If you cannot recognise this scar, you cannot recognise this man, so do not forget – who will remember this shell, once laid out on a slab, but the one who remembers the scar?
Don’t get me started on Lost Souls. We are all travellers of some road. Though we may not always walk alone when the journey still breathes, we must terminate our passage thus. The passing of time, forgotten by those who once remembered, the passing of time. The passing of time.
And that is why I prefer to sit on sandy dunes and look at ashen women and lose myself in the big blue of infinity. L’étude du beau est un duel où l’artiste crie de frayeur avant d’être vaincu. Take your tea leaves hence and leave me to my peace; I will not chase again vain dreams for nothing; the study of true beauty must, for me, culminate in its capture. Those eyes, burning like some Californian fire, shall be mine. Those hands that I have read from afar will smirch my page with their inky palms. Those breasts that I have not yet discovered will feed the greatest lines of writing the web will ever see.
But for now I read your ashes, like a father reads lies.