Write a story with a beginning, middle, and “grand finale.”
I am well aware each day is a day stolen from death
But it so happens I myself have no idea how things will turn out.

I discover I have a destiny which contains secrets.
To my mystery
I who carry the world, from beginning to end.
This isn’t just a notion of mine.

I’ve experienced almost everything, including passion and its despair.
I determine, with false free will
With hands with muddy fingers to feel for the invisible mud itself.
Existing isn’t logical.

Forgive me for the trouble
Thinking is an act,
It’s my own pain, stuck to my skin.

I want the worst thing of all: life
A vague feeling on dirty cobble stones
The emptiness is all I can ever have.

Just as I jump into the icy waters of the sea
I am prepared to slip out the back exit,
I have nothing else to do in the world.
The world is outside me.

I subsitute death for a symbol of it.
A way of facing with suicidal courage the intense cold.
You can’t tell everything because everything is a hollow nothing.
Life is a punch in the stomach.

With the delicacy of a white butterfly,
I’m trembling with fear.
Only now do I understand:
Dying is insufficient

I write in bold and severe painters strokes
But sparks and splinters fly like flashing steel
I who want to feel the breath of the beyond
Inhaling and exhaling, inhaling and exhaling

Or do I?
Could this be the grace that you call God?
I burst out in an uncontrollable laugh coming straight from my chest.

I’m not afraid of pouring rain or great gusts of wind,
For I too am the darkness of night.
So don’t expect stars in what’s coming: nothing will twinkle.

I just remembered that we die.
So I scream
Don’t be afraid.
I too am a man of hosannas and someday, perhaps, I’ll sing praises instead of the difficulties.

I very much doubt it.