I had just learned to tell stories, Ahavati, and I have no more nails.
I have to start telling myself stories. (I have to make peace with myself. It’s a sign).
About the air that gives birth to birds? (The hypothesis, in which I blindly believe, of the ancient philosophers).
About the world having to be anchored somewhere? And if that’s the way things are, he has an incredibly long lead. (The hypothesis of one of Captain Ahab’s seconds).
About the Negev desert, where the stones laugh, and where, once every two or three years, when it snows, the expression of the camels changes from melancholic and meditative (as Lawrence of Arabia described it), to Awe Itself (as Amos Oz described it) ?
A Maori story, a Malagasy story, a Baluba story?
Or a Berber story? It always begins like this: “Death is like the Moon. Who has seen the other side…?”.
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