185 292
187
Quiet Flows the Una
room of death, second class.
But it’s quite conceivable that
both you and I are nothing
but creations of a coincidental
illusion.
These are just a few of
Gargano’s random thoughts
that I caught in shorthand
because he told them to me
like this. Then he shot up a tree
in two or three hops, with the
agility of a wild man. He sat on
a branch, clasped his knees to
his chest and stared absently
into the fibre of my being.
His long black hair covered
his forehead. The leaves
on Gargano’s tree changed
colour like a chameleon
wanting to merge with its
new environment in fear of
serpentine predators. When
the leaves began to bleed and
the tree started to sob and
shake uncontrollably, I closed
my wound by passing my
hand over it without touching
it. I had to go out for a walk
to break my own stagnation. I
had to tear myself away from
Gargano and his contagious
thoughts. It’s an awful thing to
feel as if someone is tattooing
you on the inside, on the walls
of your internal organs. That’s
why I cried as I walked briskly
through the empty evening
streets.