For centuries I ask God to give me the right of light, so I can fearlessly go to the age of the flowers.
He has reasons to keep me uncertain, he says. And he insists that I still need to figure out the beauties of guilt, to get rid of the idea of immortality once and believe in the power of my temporality.
So I turn to the world and where I find tears, I crawl to pass the fragrance of passion within me.
I’m already convinced of the value of the minimum.
Besides, the minimum – seed, semen, drop, word – produces the maximum, life and death.