It was not evening, though he was breathing as evening. It was | Thoughts Hub

It was not evening, though he was breathing as evening. It wasn't even time, it was an aged air that grew more and more luminous with time, doubling space as it grunted through it.

There is a half life, a life cut off, a life in doses. It is the exhalation that remains one and long in the ceiling of the sanatorium and above those waiting in the halls. Something like remembering, like staying on the edge, like the strength of the end, something that creeps like a cut-throat, like a partial suffocation, like a monotonous circling around a small name, around a life squeezed in the nose.

It is a body mobilizing its last uprisings, a body that does not know how to leave and continues for a long time, waiting for the hour to settle, for the bed to settle. It's one stroke and for it we sharpen the era, the machines, the vessels and the ribcage.

Because of it, the name remains inscribed, a stone remains under the clock, innumerable supplications remain suspended above the monument, consisting of what is no longer more than life, what we find no place behind, what we cannot count, to invent for it a beginning.

It's nothing more than a rest, the day is short, but he will suffer, decreasing hour by hour, as he gets sick and gives himself up to an empty bed, to a game on the bed. We'll be twins in the same place, I have your breath, you have my fear.

That's how I found you, that's how the day gave you to me. You were just the end of it, you were just the rest of me. The light that played all the time transmitted it between the spirits. It's my other life I sent it to the next side. I left her for countries of stone and sleep, of memories and time asleep in the ceilings.

This exodus would have had courtyards, where the exhalation finally stopped in a single-chambered city. Where the family used to meet in the back and missing one at a time. Where the banquets were explicit and the bread was administered from above the ages and above the scales.

We bury one day at every appointment, and leave our bare bones in the open, and we get sick at the hour of the meeting. We leave our faces on the beds and present them thus to the lonely fellows. The exhalation was filling outside and we were not alone in the market.

We were meeting aliens and not quite on our time. We brothers from the north did not know that the next meeting would be in the wilderness. We didn't know that something was happening in the extremities that we were worthy of this hour. There we will receive from the grave our scraps and leave with other names, while the exhale distributes us everywhere.