After a short life-walk, standing on some high ground, I did not discover any ‘Land’, in truth never promised, I just took a glimpse at perspectives, and at the assured prospect of continued exile.

Not an infinite exile, only bordered by death. But at least a never finished exodus, no matter what happens, so vast are the surrounding deserts.

Literature, and philosophy itself, as they appear, are like dry lakes, under the sun, when one is really dying for living water, and poetry even is a mule loaded with empty gourds, or a thirsty camel.

As for the arts, they no longer light up the days. The theater of sanctification does not call for applause. Divine names offer little certainty. The angels disappear as soon as they move. True theologies are negative. Exegeses are never meant to be completed.

I remember, rather disenchanted, the past soothsayers of the future. Some wide open doors, leading to tightly closed ways, were tentatively described by these unaccountable prophets, but for sure, they did not no propose any real way out, any effective exits, they were at best just supplying asymptotes.

New angels kept falling down, wave after wave.

The Kabbalah says that at every moment of our lives, multitudes of angels are created, only to disappear. Their role is brief as much as their songs.

They praise with lilac hallelujahs the serene lordship, the gray sound of the skies. And they then dilute themselves in thin air with no return.

My patience was waning under the short luminosity of nocturnal stars.

A somber angel then unexpectedly attacked me.

Her sharp wings barely shuddered. The air was shivering. I stepped aside.

The dodge, always the dodge.

I kissed her with my eyes. She advanced surreptitiously, leapt forward on the path of escape.

Was running away an option? But where?

Towards the future from which she seemed to have come, I did not see any encouragement.

I saw her gaze turned towards what she was already no longer, or was it towards what she already thought she could no longer be?

So I took this opportunity to pluck out one of her feathers, which I dipped incontinently in a transparent ink mixed with black tears.