Wrath

We read concupiscently of little women and little men of entertainment, great singers of our littleness and of the greatness of their pools and of their ty flirtations. We read of their anxieties, their dark periods, of the cuckold subtly bent to a discount psychology, of how they mess with it with their accountants. Who cares about the slime and the jubilation of these unpunished demigods, of their plastic haloes, of the navigated sons of es, of the tinkling glamour and the vermilion colours of their lips, that hide smiles winking at the queue on the red carpet. off Then big people from the small glow of bodies but from the great glitter of placid mirages and lovely, die. Little old world friends die, that you read on Facebook, and yes, you grasp the meaning of things you get dizzy, caught up in the futile whiteness of the infinite number of universes with infinite stories, wavering but proudly resist to the anonymous sepulchral, to the slow fading, like tears in a toxic rain and dirty with mud and oil. This is my world, theirs is a mirage I hope does not come true, even if it tempts me. Here the closing there is not, Here the closing is the world that will come, if it will come