So what's your point when the day is already breaking towards sunset, you're exhausted, and the sun is sinking into the big sack of a great vagabond named God.
Little beggars enter the church and extend their hands reverently. You never know why, though they always claim it's for food, for food. He laughs. I once saw a boy, about fourteen years old, earning his living in this simplest of physical ways. He was leaving the cinema. He wasn't having a bad time, but he certainly didn't have a good look in his eye. Oh no, fuck.
Fog is an atmospheric fruit that falls to the ground, sometimes finding its way into your head, obscuring the past, otherwise known, especially by older people, as memories. I have almost no memories, and I advise you to do the same with yourself. Do you hear?
He didn't hear. He sat staring out the large window opposite, as if trying to remember something. His eyes were dull green, turning even darker, and nothing showed through his gaze but a strange, slightly irritating chaos. Evening had long since settled in the window of the small pub where the two of us, it could be safely said, sat. Two small glasses of golden liquid gleamed on our table, and night was approaching. This was especially evident in the clouds, tangled and twisted, as if women in a fit of hysteria were rewarded by a funeral procession straight to heaven. They transformed into clouds along the way. The remaining remnants of the daylight fell on the sidewalks, fading and fading along the way until they transformed into a vague purple-dirty gray glow. I noticed that such moments were facetious, and the air thinned and then became truly delicate.
Then the spell is broken, and from one moment to the next, all nature gives way to the approaching, domineering heroin, simply called night. And there's nothing to see.
My friend wouldn't listen to me. Apparently. He said he was doing well with his girlfriend, but worse at work. When he recounted his failures and childishly ridiculous screw-ups, I told him he had talent.
Once in church, I saw a woman, about 50, short, obese, with short black hair. She stood right next to the altar with a large crucifix. When anyone tried to approach her, she waved it, warding them off like holy water from the devil. Of course, everyone gave way, except for one old woman who had come to Mass. She stood next to her, and she was really old. The woman with the crucifix waved it around until she finally started mumbling something and looking the old woman straight in the eye. I can't say how, but it wasn't human gaze. Finally, she walked away, threatening her, the altar of saints, and all of heaven.
Night had already fallen. We hadn't lingered at all. We were slow, but we had plenty of time. I studied his face and his demeanor. My mind searched for the secret code, for what nature was up to.
I looked at his eyes, trying to sense what was happening there. I remembered many similar looks, invariably conveying that it only took another dawn, another granted day, to understand that chaos, ingratitude, and the pretense of religiosity were far removed from the harmony and order of nature. There wasn't a single star in the black sky, so I continued my discourse.
I can't imagine helping anyone if you don't find and say even a single word, a small sentence, that your friend, acquaintance, a pregnant woman, a five-year-old child, a good or bad spirit with a confused look, is waiting for. And I know she won't admit it, but if you find that secret word and hit the nail on the head, you gain trust. And trust can be stronger than the fear of the night and the murmurs from the nearby square.
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