TE17 Mysterious Montenegro

The Dreamed Part

mutations are not a product of radiation but—like the one he saw a few nights ago—a result of the dumping of ultra-hormonized chicken shit into the waters of a bay where people dive to never surface again. All that vacant time to fill with imaginary fears to cover up the true fear; with everything that already happened, with the little that might still happen, at the moment of nothing is happening or of, calm down, it already happened. That ocean full of sharks. Those fish that move even in their sleep, they say, and among them the one called Somniosus microcephalus and that, apparently, can live for more than three centuries (and he feels like that, so long-livingly somniosus, nothing makes you feel more anxiously long-living than the eternal nights of insomnia). Sharks that he has been evading, but that he can’t stop thinking about and pondering and attracting with the color of his bad blood. Moving from one wave to the next, the free association of ideas, thinking of everything and nothing and swimming from one small island to another clinging to a piece of driftwood. And, he always remembers, how when they began to talk about surfing the Internet, how the novelty of the reflex wasn’t at all surprising to him. He had never thought or moved in a different way and, probably, all writers moved like that, from one thing to another, finding not what they were looking for but what, even still, would work for something, clinging to a piece of wood that once belonged to a shipwrecked bed. Thebed isalsoawholemadeof pieces,eachof them, indispensable. 201 He had always done it, that, always.