The loneliness of the painting

Timidly, the night bores between fractures the one day which weakens, advancing on the slow anguish of a deadened sky. Recovering the out-of-date scales of a dirtied fabric of the lapse of memory, drowned among the turned blue colors of a numb past. Gently undulate the fragile glare of one candle to clearness hesitant and trembling. Swept the cold breath of the winter engaging under the door precipitately. Dance the clear flame on the shades of the table, awaking its phantoms and its evils. Go the deaf step of the night bringing the wind and the storm. Fear, the erosion of all feelings, this impression frozen more nothing to hope. Any form of reaction under the somnolence of an administered chloroform to thought falls asleep. By the regular swinging of the flame come to hypnotize. Hatred, the rage, passion, the desire for liking, for projecting themselves. Leaving only the soft torpor fall asleep little by little. Arms, legs slackening itself, eyes closing itself. Given up with the door of the dream while knocking on the door with dormant wood. So that it opens, that it releases, that it tears off all bonds with the day. There is the soft music of silence, slow, invading, heady, alleviating. There is this diffuse happiness to feel it to coil itself in the body of an irradiant heat. Violently, the night is there quartering the fractures of the day furiously, parcelling out the blades of clearness, crushing the black. By posing the veil sinks of its despair. In which you avoid yourself before you to go from there to trail in the empty streets. Slipping along the stones and walls by rubbing you with their wrinkles. Scaling on their stop sharp this heart with sharp loan giving up itself. I saw it in your unhappy eyes. With your dreadful glance. I would have liked to tell you so many things to help itself to survive. But, didn’t I know, by fear, by timidity, perhaps both? The black entered in you blowing the clearness of the candle. Letting settle the night. There is this frozen cold which runs on your shoulders, crystallizes your heart, your body, weakens the beats of your heart. There is this waiting of the day so that the out-of-date scales of your fabric dirtied by the lapse of memory find their colors. Tomorrow, the sun will rise, bringing its heat, its hot and languorous glare. I can promise it to you, more it is impossible, I am not a prophet. But, I will return to look you with eyes in love. And, one will think that it will be well, like one marvellous moment, one holiday without cold, nor storm.