The incident

 We didn't have defence for the flu, the ball was running through the cars and the postmen delivering bad news had to stop at the traffic lights, like an open field of rye where your grandparents scythe.
Luckily the stranger hits the ball which hits the fence which hits the post which bursts an ocean of people onto my head.


That's when I understood pregnancy as want for people.
A society incubated in pipes relaying aliments, ointments, the vacuity of televised tournaments.
We are afraid.
We defer mortality.
Without flesh there is not love but we don't want to pollute and the touch is interdict and the love is in the making not in the abstraction.
Idealization, procrastination, post-gratification, extension of time always the more remote...


We put bodies to wail and in the waiting for something precious and aulic
But if in our genetic thrones will sit robots, who will inherit the Earth ?


We forget to be children of men.
We forget the Now, the Here, the present of Season in this hecatombe which is my love for you.
I''ll protect, I'll hang to my eyes the seed of loving, humid with tears untimely.


Please gift a facsimile accident to petrify my heart so may I free this love from the contrition of time.
Shave my days as smooth as bottoms of babies.
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(The incident above is about the toddler in the cold chasing a balloon between cars with father aghast but the bold stranger is able to retrieve and normality is restored and the sedative reality may resume).