Ulyssian Meteors: 1

 In the inconspicuous, chariot winged dream was a camouflaged, sylvan nymph that could not play me, as my fingers were never crossed so that I can write--write not about her poignancy, not about the fatal maze that she is lost in, not about all the things that she wishes to change. not about the reticence that she cannot follow, but about a queer minstrelsy that, like the one lurking deep within you and me, around the unknown pits of our hearts, she pretends, not to perceive, when she becomes the real one with her real voice and her truth that darkness is equivalent to the democracy people talk about, and freedom is the crime she commits to save it. She wakes up. All her skin is full of sweat. Through the dust and smoke she can see in the bubbles of light outside her window pane that people are having meat-bowls and soup in the rain.