5 Because I’m convinced, though it would seem the contrary, that life is naught else than time and space, yet not a time and space as understood by the majority, but a time and a space subject to my whims, a time and a space that I can mould and twist in my own way. for instance: now I’m here in my room and I am a man and it rains, but the next instant I’m that tiger and I hide among the trees and lurch, I study which among all is the easiest prey and then, without even attacking, I’m not the tiger, but the prey, I’m the lamb, yet not the lamb of God, but the tiger’s s(g)la(i)ve, a lamb that surrenders, that wants to die within the tiger’s fangs though it flees. Lambs are artists of trickery and disguise. Fleeing is naught else than their flirting ways. The lamb is definitely the hunter. The tiger is the prey. Time, space, I sigh. 6 Now I’m one of those workers that mix concrete with water, under the rain. I am (I go from one thing to the other) the muscular arms of the workers, the spade’s handle, the water, the whitewash crust, the sand, and finally, I’m the cement dust which floats and refuses the blending, the one which goes through the nostrils of the men who bend their backs under the rain and sing and drink moonshine to appease the rain’s blow on their faces. 7 And again I fall in this room, I close my eyes, fifteen years pass and it still rains. Today I’m back in my room and I have paper and pencil and, if I become tiger, devil and terse, I could write something. 69 19 BLACK RENAISSANCE NOIRE But, contrary to what I thought, the rain has yet to bring to thunder. this is a rain without electricity. It’s a pity, for, perhaps, with lightning and thunder my body would rise as Lazarus rose, only to die a second time.