Beginnings
ENTIRE LIVES ARE a fingersnap in the symphony of time. Men and women copulate. Babies catch sick and die. Children with stronger constitutions survive. Each generation recycles the past. In between they create and weave stories filled with the same old plots that never feel that way to any of them. Men and women always want more than what they have in their own hands. They have affairs on the sly. They rage against dreams so easily deflated by others. Nevertheless they insisting on giving voice, full-throated and loud enough to reach the farthest echelons of the theater, and later, amplified through a microphone, to hopes long theirs. They exist, therefore they must matter. But not for long, though: time is arbitrarily ruthless.
Like the mad ghost that I am, I slip like a snak
