One Would Like

One would like to grasp what is eternal in hearts, in May surprises and in the crazy rambling. One would like to heal the lost, with scents of incense and recommendations on the infinite and beyond. One would like to run the eternal on the pages of Marx and in the faces of the lost, in the empty words of Foucalut and in the salubrious practice of medicines of the soul, last refuge of repentant mad hatters and greedy. One would like to seek again the narrative of the vanquished and win, as in the sweet advent sated by rivers of vodka and industrious building worlds populated with grateful ghosts. One would like to grasp what is eternal, but in the end what is more eternal than the single man and of his wagers, than his dreaming of infinity in the glances disenchanted, in the white moons and in one-night stands. In the evenings with friends and in the crazy gestures to snatch a smile and chase away the smell of chrysanthemum, a flower that Italians associate with death, imagining it as a putrid and frightening skull covering its head with flowers. We would like to grasp what is eternal about in waking up from the sleep of reason and discover that today is cup game day. We would like to, but of infinity there remains only the eternal repetition