Post scriptum

 Some street of time trembling in your being like a drop of the future, so moist, so tender, such a sprout of adolescence, such a larva awakening hormones in the sun that one believes you can now order in a hope of eternal youth the thousand and one factors that make the enigma of the panacea that laughs at itself pass through your mystical joy. Pleasures, huh, coming out of the prison of the secret exoduses of the soul. Where self-importance borders on the pending issues of life and its insistent concerns there will always be premature aging bathed in feelings of guilt, revenge, resentment and bad faith, the feudal nausea of ​​an ego impregnated with mental objects constantly patching up its hammer blow with the muscular illustrations of the internal dialogue and the fragmentary sensations of the vulgarity of what one eats distressingly to magnetize with the palate the emotional metastasis. Nothing ages faster than feeling constantly offended by the acts of our fellow men, reacting with a sting, reproducing scripts in a wounded succession of swollen eyelids and irritated eyes, the ego's anti-diplomatic clock (and here comes the whole Nietzschean aphorism of not allowing the ego to inflate so much because any prick deflates it, and the Christian apothegm of turning the other cheek). Rather, take refuge in the eternally young insolence of a radically invisible and silent rite.

SEE ---wrapped in a luminous smoke of a diving suit that dances with the possibility of entering the cone of light of another vision---What can this corner do for you, now? Present you with a purpose, become one with your other self, free you from every little causal chain that made you go from here to there and vice versa your whole life, preventing you from taking over the labyrinth of your visions, your expanse of amber cream run over in your gaze wanting to open agitated curves within your See---a vision that now came without any warning: the depths of your body moving, huh?, your solar plexus as solid as never before, your diaphragm seeming to rise without any command from you. A flash crossing your consciousness. You can no longer maintain your world!, falsely held together by an expensive psycho-social farce, which sucks an amount of energy that is indispensable for those who want to discover their own meaning; entangled in circles around itself while Something calls you, inviting you to “let go”, to acquire a sufficient sense of “detachment” to awaken the transfer of your energies, taken to the orgiastic furnace of metamorphoses. Pre-twilight evaporations? Before the wall of fog of perception, improvising sudden non-existences to cross it, key entrant, counter-cipher of the body converted into a flash of consciousness, pineal tremor, magnet of noospheric rutilances --- floating voluptuousness recognizable only by it: wandering sums of fragmentary extrasensory data, snake of optic nerves emerging from the whirlwind of light, bubbling with psychic energy. Then, through the Parallel Lines, sniffing, looking for clues --- no self there, right? --- overbearing one's own being tattooed by the depth of vision.