On the eve of great things to happen, at night, when one is overcome by the sensation that life is larger than life itself, at night, late night, there is always the feeling that the world is either going to end or the light of the day will bring one’s dreams to the realm of possibility and completion. And yet one goes to sleep to dream land and the circle comes to an end beginning again towards the end again, and that’s when the pain kicks in and the auto-da-fé takes place, witches burning and the smell of nothingness reeking through the air and up our nostrils, the day goes on unchanged and the night soon follows still tricking us into believing it will bring epiphany or liberation, while cunningly plotting its suicide over and over again, killing itself inside our skin and eyes, ending forever in a brutal cycle, the sheets smelling of sleep and sweat, and life unspoiled and intact, no debris and no comfort, on the eve of great things to happen.
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