“I sing...you like music, I know... I sing for you... I am an exile too, but I sing.”
His tenor voice was at its prime. He poured out song after song, as others gathered in the corridor and room to hear him.
(Tomorrow, he will extract a molar for Francesco.)
As I write in my studio, rain splashes across leaded glass and sputters on my autumn fire. I dictate. Francesco nods at his desk; it is late, well after midnight.
Fame, in the figure of a bird, should be depicted as covered with little tongues instead of feathers.
Pleasure and pain are best shown as twins, back to back, since they are inseparable.
“No, no,” Francesco objects. “I think we should write down important things.”
I agree.
I pick up a paper and read about heat...fire...vapors...water sucked from the ocean.
Yes, I must discriminate. I have over a hundred treatises to work on...the days are passing quickly.