El Buen Retiro

We don't know how long we have left to live and meanwhile I have filled up with petrol and wait for the electric car. Drawing-room oracles descend imberbi on the sandy shore soiled with supposed truths. We witness the comedy: "the pension system must be saved" and for this our dæmons are expelled from the chorus. All right, all this becomes a mockery of the sacredness of an advent that never happens. I prefer to read the Greek classics, since I have little time left rather than the good Chomsky, ashen prophet of a world I shall not see. I still try to understand economic cycles and try to decipher between the lines Schumpeter's thinking. Then I say to myself what do these people know about infinity? What do they know of the crumpled intimacy of those who have lost hope and sees bare life and that's all without the laurel wreaths of thinkers of good bourgeois education. Science for the living who do not realise they are already dead. I look for the phrases suitable for the buen retiro from life, when the time comes. Maybe I will take up smoking again. Cigarettes cost money, but life preserved by triglycerides and bronchitis by health-conscious people armed with flaming scales, with each passing day loses its value