THE GOOD WEATHER NET

This damn chamber is getting a slight air of waiting room, and although there is no space for the disappointment, the rarefied atmosphere is suffocating. This game hand is taking chances on the impossibility of matching any card. We, the dreamers, the possibly “discouraged on the way” improbable winners, keep on fueling the tank with anything available; any little thing contains a world to be exploited. Under the sun where the sweat is reducing me to a stain on the road, taking the shape of my shadow, my phantom clothes could still give one more drop if you would wring them. Or play a 50’s xylophone melody, with the martini glasses filled to convenience, before my liquid trace evaporates, completely. Spherificated, fragmented, deconstructed in some many ways already… sometimes the silence is the only therapy, a cure which consequences, in a long term, are unknown. Who knows if the daring for the unthinkable, me, the one who has being, randomly, the most propitious subject for an inconceivable rupture, is the answer. Every morning is different but has a peculiar charm, if you don’t see with a naked eye you can invent a net to capture it. If that is so, and I am water controlled by the tides and i may not be, or seem to be, the same as I was yesterday… I want to make a catcher of self-conceived inner beauty that, no matter what the weather forecasts are, traps only good weather. And then, make it fall, in shape of vivifying shower, over my cells, which from time to time, tend to get piled down in the dumps. B_Nour