Tuesday has rarely the taste of a Sunday. The man arrives, now, at the point of no return. The center of his body is an active language, an alphabet of symbols. The recurrent self-reflection is how to transmit the learned memory, the mystics of an inner circumference that rolls to nowhere. A man bought some colors just crossing the street, where he again met the real. The stories of an old man that carries a mountain of flavors in his old vehicle from a place so far away that all have time to ripe before dawn. Today the man crossed the street without a pullover and chose from the piles. The bag he uses is translucid, so the sun hits the surface and makes a clear sign on the asphalt. The colors are carefully chosen to dance on the shelves as they were in an opera designed by Olbrich, with a golden dome. The actors are trimmed in pieces and cooked slowly to another point of no return, a redundancy in the short proposition, a theme. The equilibrium of the heat and the circle shall enter a new dimension. The dish is a double spoon masterpiece. The smell is noticed beyond the colossal wall. The pilgrims wake up.
