He spends the evening at the theatre with his long-suffering mistress, Mme. Janet.
Someone has noticed that.
He sits in the same seat,
that seat number 104.
In this seat he travels around the world
without seeing anything
not even in Peking,
where he listens to the vowels and consonants of the echoes of his voice,
yes, he forms a character of this music.
He sees it clear even in the dark in the corridor,
where they are packed in the space like parentheses.
One of these participants to be served with chocolate soup,
is still like something not too far from a seashell.
It begins to crawl, lifting its faceless head,
it begins to sit up again,
this time facing the direction of the rays of the open book coming in from the new day.
But slowly and slowly, disappearing from the stage
and seizing our images of the smoke and shadows
still hiding behind the bodies of our tall building,
it represents an open road
into the clouds,
he has nowhere to escape,
he carries his unpublished work back home
to find a title of monument,
somewhere in Sahara.
Fragment of Life - Uncle Ebo Wheelbright
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