The pleasure is still mine,

in this back-and-forth, boy.

Observe, without so much inherence.

Embrace this world, hold it close, and have tolerance.

Do not lower your head.

Appear.

Step down from the pedestal. Or the podium.

For everything is already all right.

Feel this breeze.

It no longer comes from the sea.

It follows me, a tremendous fixation,

as if it could not bear to see me still.

The sails are at full speed,

and the navigators of reality must remain alert.

There are sailors, there are drowned,

there are swimmers

and also the tormented.

There are cherished harbors,

moored ships

and also those abandoned.

Even the ornate ones, when out of the sea,

are merely ornaments.

No return.

And yet, this new wind

makes me take flight without feeling sick.

Not every evil, nor every sea.

Not every love, nor every salt.

Not every pain, nor every mercury.

Not every perjury, nor every sulfur.

This supposed chronology

organizes points and lines

into cosmology and geography.

Fascinatingly,

does the essential slip away?

Among infinite possibilities,

you and I were born in the same seasons.

Is it simply fractal?

What we call an encounter

is it unprecedented,

or merely another rule of repetition?

Divine action.

These twists and revolts,

the ambiguity of the currents.

They bind,

sustain,

and also carry.

So,

may the force that keeps us from leaving be that same force

that keeps us from falling,

from sinking.

And what we call a limit

is what keeps us together

when everything else falls apart.

And what are we to expect from our amalgamations?

For the times are uncertain

and wear a veiled cruelty.

Confusion, a mere design.

Repeated.

Circles.

Angels and angles, even if they plead.

Even if many weep.

And even when there is a total absence of meaning,

when hearts are held back,

locked away in doubt and hatred,

even in the apocalypse itself,

there is still one thing

that does not disappear.

My dear ones, refuge remains the dwelling.

We must attach ourselves to this search.

The most honorable one.

There is a work that has long

been postponed,

and it involves all allies.

Even when honesty

presents itself as a knife at the throat,

it will not be the end.

There is no end.

Fear, yes.

Then trust me.

Everything that has been done and undone

must make room, once again.

Like a domino effect.

Even without asking to exist,

we exist.

Not as an isolated line.

We are points in a crochet.

Families and clans.

Survivors.

Descendants.

Our cherished spirals.

Rational interpretations.

Trees and arrangements

for the delight of angels.

There is a web we cannot see

because we are it.

Each point exists within the other points.

Relation.

And each thread incorporates other threads.

Beautiful, isn't it?

Perhaps what we call an individual

is merely a point that, in brief consciousness,

perceives the web that sustains it.

Paradox.

We are equal,

but not through resemblance or category.

Much less through beliefs or science.

We are equal

because each of us is singular.

Stars with different points,

perpetuating emotions and feelings,

for these are truly our testaments.

A set of unique elements.

Everything that can be contained

and everything that joins verses.

Awake.

Each person carries what they received,

what they lost,

the sustenance

and the support.

And still, here we are.

Incredible, yes.

Man:

lives and dies unwillingly.

Life, love, and death.

Luck.

Blind are those who do not want to see.

What connects life and death?

Love.

And despite everything,

here we are, all together.

Some before others. Others before some.

Sinking. Sailing. Docking. Departing.

And others, when they allow themselves,

flying.

Sustaining

and being sustained.

That should be enough.

And the rest

is the background.