When I wondered why she resisted coming to visit me where I was,

 When I wondered why she resisted coming to visit me where I was, I was suddenly overcome by the unfathomable dripping humidity of the heat around me, by the dirty downpour running over warty beams of pink clams on the pier; by yellow domes of lemons running down into crates of vegetables and bubbling through condiments of animals butchered in their own blood. All of it was for sale on the street. It was unbelievable. In my last e-mail to her, I wrote: ----- Selfishness is only as good as the one who owns it; it can be great or it can be vile and despicable. No matter how poor the city I live in, inside the hotel across the street all this crap from the market is cut, strained, grouped by name in the refrigerator, counted and recounted, opened, washed, frozen and thawed, rejected, sorted, prepared and finally served to the tourists to enjoy in rapture. I worked as a waiter in this hotel when I was a boy. I thought it was amazing to work in a five-star hotel. I felt chic. I preferred working there to working as an office boy at the university. But getting back to the subject, if we are able to find a common canon for our selfishness, it is the whole of our life that will take a step forward. Furthermore, our love goes far beyond a dietary problem. It is enough to recall the methods with which Emperor Julius Caesar defended himself against his minor headaches: very long marches, a very simple and rustic way of life, continuous stay in the open air, constant fatigue and sensory saturation. But these are, in a rough calculation, the general measures of protection and conservation against the extreme vulnerability of this subtle machine that works under maximum pressure called genius (.) -----, I wrote. My e-mail was certainly shamelessly indolent, but in the afterglow of my foaming lips the memory of her breasts kept beating. The pressure of a thousand atmospheres under which I was compressed in that hotel room, where I stood and piled myself up waiting for her, was strong enough to put me to the test once again between her thighs and breasts; and the voluptuousness that, in the shells of my unfinished stories, tore a purple velvet heart from my stone world, interspersed my thoughts with needles and underwear. The email continued like this: ----- I am not inviting you to visit the city. I myself no longer walk freely around here. I am monitored twenty-four hours a day by all the city's public security services and by the military, from here and from other states. Wherever I go, they send people after me. Therefore, I suggest that you get off at the international airport here, get in a taxi and go straight to the hotel. Don't talk to anyone, don't smile at anyone. We will be stuck inside the hotel for as many days as necessary. We won't lack for anything inside. Then, just make the trip back. Without any major emotions. I promise. Just understand that the tired worker, who breathes slowly after unimaginable deeds and feats, and whose gaze may have become momentarily stupid and empty, lets things go as they are because he considers the fruits of his selfishness more comfortable and healthy for both of us. With this, I incredibly strengthen the value of my love for you. I have no doubt that the most basic instinct of my feelings for you is an aspiration for life. And I consider admirable (in spite of everything) the discipline to which I have submitted myself in order to survive in this city. At dusk, I open all kinds of books in which the dangerous spells of the art of politics are mobilized, and I rarely fail to write things that awaken the bad instincts of all those "involved." At such moments I would like to know more about each nameless misfortune caused by certain rituals of black magic than about any image of spontaneous political catastrophe that such books can offer. But as my inner voice said, at the time of my initiatory death: "The further we are removed from the radiating center of consciousness, the more political becomes the atmosphere of our brains." '. Then, looking at myself in the mirror, I wonder to what point someone could have gone to dump what was left of their books and writings on the anonymous virtual asphalt. What in God's name (?!) can we expect now that someone (preferably you) will pass by here late at night and be suddenly assaulted by an irrepressible desire to read (?) And after that, by an overwhelming sexual desire (?) Or is it something very different, a soul that is here on guard, feeding hopes with the crumbs that you throw at me (?) The truth is that, regardless of your real intentions, I write each word that I write in such a way that the destiny of the world looks at me from them with a thousand eyes. But this (I have already made it clear to you) is not the perspective of a pessimist faced with the world's ''evil eye''. It is (yes) exactly what the tragic artist communicates about himself.  Not only the fact that poverty always loses, but precisely the "state of no fear" in the face of the terrible and the questionable. For him, this state (and for the general distress) is highly desirable. "Whoever knows him," thinks the tragedian, "honors him with supreme honors." And I certainly communicate this too, both with my writings and with my life. I obviously assume that I am an artist, or rather a genius of communication. My courage and the freedom of my feelings in the face of situations as unfavorable as they are absurd; in the face of sublime misfortunes from which I have no chance of escaping; in the face of problems and situations that arouse horror in ordinary people - it is this triumphant state that the tragedian chooses for himself. It is this state that he glorifies, and in glorifying it he glorifies himself. The courage in our souls celebrates its best and rarest fruits in the face of tragedy. The drink of this most sweet cruelty to oneself replaces any occasional suffering with the boundless exaltation of one's own strengths. But for many people, finding exact words for what they see before their eyes can be very, very difficult. On top of all this, however, there will soon be a satisfactory amount of dust, which here in particular is composed of sea salt, limestone and mica.