XII.
The stormy night was beginning to reach its end, there was no need for candlelight anymore, although the ambient settings were not entirely legible by then. The suing rain brought cool air to the chamber. They nudged softly on every belonging in there— here and there pages from the diary on the table were rendered to turn, even if for a few pages; front or back. Sometimes an entirely new chain of wind would come, blessing the runes anew. Sometimes there were sprinkles of the rain on the chair and the desk. The water did not land on the bed, it was further away from the chair and the window. But the long rays of light did land on windows, on its beautiful, artisan crafted patterns, of painstakingly intricate designs; one could say that they were fruits of labour of a brilliant artist. However, they valiantly provided the passage of the fresh light of the dawn. There was still not enough light in the room to have everything illuminated, legible. Sometimes, a holler of brustling leaves and sticks would come into play, beautifully enunciating the symphony of elements, outside and within. They, however, did not do enough to wake the occupant of the bed. But if anyone else was in the room, every night, they would know it was about time for him to wake up. They would know that soon he would get up on his feet, for a moment staring dead at the floor, then going by the window he would open up all its merry family. That he would tear up a page or two from the diary, and set them free over the washed landscape. The page or pages would then, by the gentle yet unsenile strength of the wind and its companions, go up and down to the sky or maybe towards the settling woods not very far away. But if one was in the room every night and every day, like silent dawn and dusk that watch for movements like an inert sentinel, would not know. That he was not going to wake up today.
Dedicated to Carlos Reygadas
Funtitled #59
Kleptocratic Spectra III / Luckies 13