I struck out walking again, impelled by my rubber soles.
I was crowned by a magnificent silence surrounded by baby grand pianos everywhere. In the darkness, traced out with electric light bulbs, one could read with out effort: St. Lazarus Station.
St. Lazarus was born very pale. He emitted a smell of wet sheep. When they hit him he spit sugar cubes from his mouth. He could hear the slightest of noises. He once confessed to his mother that he could count late at night, by their beats, all the hearts in the village.
He had a preference for the silence of another orbit, which the fish drag along, and he bent down terrified every time he passed beneath an arch. After he was resurrected he invented the coffin, the church candle, magnesium lamps and train stations. When he died he was hard and laminated like a loaf of bread made of silver. His soul followed behind, already wed to the other world, filled with boredom, with a reed in its hand.
The mail train had left at midnight.
I needed to depart on the 2 A.M. express. Entrances to cemeteries and railroad platforms.
The same air, the same void. The same broken windowpanes.
The rails were moving away, beating in their perspective of theorems, dead and laid out like the arm of Christ on the Cross.
Apples stiff with fear were falling from the dusky roofs.
In the nearby tailor shop the scissors incessantly cut pieces of
white thread.
Cloth to cover everything, from the worn-out chest of the old woman to the cradle of the newborn child.
At the other end of the station another traveller was approaching. Only one.
Axé.
coldhearted scientist وداد 