I go back to the sea of dust as it were a swollen river. Every now and then thicker debris runs over me, but it is lightweight and doesn’t really hurt me.
This is the Dream. It’s like having a bad argument, or indigestion.
I thought that getting into this stream would ease my vital functions, but dust and sand are everywhere. Through my teeth, in my ears, and in my eyes.
The flow never stops: they say that we will only be able to stop on our death’s hour, and only then we’ll count the bones that remain intact; although they also say that it is dangerous to mess with time, I did. I’ve been running through time the way I would have jumped a ditch, and that’s why I cannot see a way to stop this sandstorm.
My glasses are now broken. The human body has 350 bones at birth. During adulthood they join together and we can count a little more than two hundred.
This morning – if I may call this dim light of dawn this way- I counted a hundred. Maybe not wearing glasses prevents me from having an accurate idea of objects?
Maybe I’ve become an object to myself?
Maybe my fast trip through time is over, is truly over?
Translated by the author (edited by Sabrina Macchi)