Έσιει μέρες που ήθελα να το μεταφέρω δαμέ γιατί εν όμορφον, γιατί όσες φορές δω τούτην την σκηνήν κλαίω (ο γέρημος). Αφήννω την στα αγγλικά γιατί στα ελληνικά αδικείται νάκκον:
"My darling. I'm waiting for you. How long is a day in the dark? Or a week? The fire is gone now and I'm horribly cold. I really ought to drug myself outside, but then there'd be the sun. I'm afraid I waste the light on the paintings and on writing these words.
We die. We die rich with lovers and tribes, tastes we have swallowed, bodies we have entered and swam up like rivers. Fears we've hidden in, like this wretched cave. I want all these marked on my body. We're the real countries. Not the boundaries drawn on maps, the names of powerful men. I know you'll come and carry me out into the palace of the winds. That's all I've wanted, to walk in such a place with you, with friends. An Earth without maps.
The lamp's gone out and I'm writing in the darkness."
Ώσπου να μεν χαρακώννουν σύνορα τους χάρτες, stay cool and keep rocking!
