VAMP RETHORIC 2

 The forced self-exposure had been subjecting me to a very tedious and repetitive series of instantaneous deaths and rebirths, with the synapses of my brain, as Sabrina spoke: "So perfect, so consistent is the freedom of our spirits, within the confusion that has pulverized the world in recent hours, that a simple kiss makes it seem as if all paths of life are equally good, all movements of reality capable of producing the same pressures, partakers of our skin, of our intrusion into the subatomic astral world. Everything that surrounds us, while with our eyes closed, kissing, not a single movement, not a single thing escapes haecceity: the weight of the ore, the scent of prehistory in matter; the light of honey, dripping in the sound of the night's word; the dye of wheat, the ivory of elephants, and the aerial view of a solitary whale's tail on the high seas, unite around us like walls of sonorous waters that draw the sea into our eyes, its sun and its iodine dream, in which our tongues work so deafly, turning over themselves within our mouths, surrounded by multiple and silent geographies, which also dream their own dreams: a temperature of a high sky, and nirvana under the extreme empire of confused unities gathered before us, in the increased fertilization of time of Eternity.

Sabrina keeps her pale eyes on me, two small dark spots like mouths, feeding on a remnant of the scene, from which she certainly drew some intriguing expressions. In the bathroom, for a few minutes.

Finally, I took a deep breath and said to Sabrina, before walking out the apartment door: "A thin thread ties me to you, a debt to the outside world, veiled by you, time as the essential growth of this mystery, on the edges of a complicit smile. A nightmare image by Goya." "Do you think I should have another glass of Daiquiri?" she asks. I laugh. I bring my hand closer to hers; I find it impressive that, despite everything, she can't stop acting for even a minute; it's already a nature within her—a psychopathy of folie raisonnante, meaning mania or self-conscious rational delirium. "Look," I replied, "I like you, I would even say I love you, but without needing to give an answer to that, an extension of an enigma that sexualizes us."

Her skin seemed irresistible to me from one moment to the next, but it was certainly the skin of a reptile, or the skin of a thousand lizards and venomous snakes stitched together. The idea that Sabrina was made of a thousand different personalities horrified me at that moment, because it reminded me of myself, that I was that thing linked to her skin by the astral. “Have you published any more books, K?” she continued. “A lot of dirty ink, but of extraordinary clarity, without descriptions or boredom, a thankless universe where everything conspires at the pace of a movie script,” I said. She answered the phone, and the drugged emptiness in the room became even more the most obvious, shared even by the person on the other end of the line (trout in aspic), etc., a void of ideas followed by a buzzing in the head. A suspended void in which nothing happened and everything buzzed. A drastic narrative effort—characters glimpsed, frozen at a point where the limbo of glimpses begins to become visible and susceptible to cuts. I decided to reproduce this conversation here because it is essential to the mystery between Sabrina and the reader. Even if the reader finds it bizarre, they must recognize, first of all, that we are here on the brink of an orgy of language, already well into the nihilism of meaning. Progressively heading towards such an orgy, a true language of indeterminate functions emerges, a lagging expression of all the waves of dark matter in space.

For a while there, feeling alone among them, in the silence of poisoned water, my mind wandering through the fragments of my own internal conversations. "A Light!" Sabrina said suddenly. "Different from the others, exploratory, experienced in inquiries and suspicious clarities, like in her I Ching, with psychological intrusions and rhetorical prophylaxis." But it seemed to Beatriz and me that it was just the effect of the cocaine, of the overly long soak in the suite's hot tub. Our attitude became strangely reserved around Sabrina, as she began to spread out expensive dresses and women's clothing in front of Beatriz, all the while with a cough stuck in her throat, waiting for our comments. There was jewelry, banknotes, cell phones making beeping noises, plane tickets, and a book on Heidegger.