It is inscribed

It inscribes itself in the wet soil the end of another season. Water and death go well together. The cold that sets in is a slow poison that transforms the dream of living things. The snow in some places is already on the ground, but in my city, the concrete is still warm.

The leaves, as graceful corpses, show their veins and bones. The frost attacks the edges and protrusions first, turning the juices to salt. Soon, there will be no more colours; there will be only white and mud. At least in some parts of the city, because in others, there will be no trees, only cold slabs of asphalt, stone and other materials unaffected by the cycles of the seasons.

Curiously, the crows, or the ravens, I don’t know how to tell them apart, are still there. Will Winter be mild? Will Grey prevail? The calcified branches will hoot like ghosts without sheets?

The end of a season calls for possible futures, feeding our fears and ulcers. It reminds us of the mysterious cycle that governs our existence, the one we cherish because we see no other, the one we invent because if there are others, we cannot conceive them.

I have more and more difficulty breathing.

I rub myself with camphor.

I walk, and I feed myself as much as possible with the colours of what is abandoned.

I walk without chasing my tail. Awkwardly, tail in French can mean dick. My "tail," anyway, has never really been a marathon runner. My mind remains phallic, however. It is always there to give me pleasure and to seed my hours.

It inscribes itself in the wet soil the reminder of our present. We don’t need seasons when the soul drinks in the poetry of our astonishment of living. When we think about it, and only when we don’t lock ourselves in any logic, can we perhaps - I say perhaps - understand what it is to live and to die.