In three square feet, a whirlpool of the abyss I saw tonight. Just glanced at it, from the distance, and I said to myself, holly makaroy! I went for a-runnin' to Highgate Woods at dusk. Me, without glasses, kind of funny thing. This time, I believe, in the green fields of Alabama and Tennessee, below the huge and eternal trees that spread down to the state of Florida, the thin air is hosting a convention of delicate and peaceful glow-worms, flashing now and vanishing at once; on the contrary, the wet woods of England are dark as a forgotten pit, and if something luminous was to be found, that would be a burning sphere of reddish rage, crossed from top to bottom in a vertical radius by the black oval of a savage beast: the pupils of a wild animal, standing there, tenacious, until the aim is fulfilled.
In three square feet, I insist, two girls laugh licentiously, holding softly drinks in their hands and keeping them in a careless sway; a weird shilouette, sitting sideways in a bench and having her face covered by a cap, repeats twice looking astray, cigarette in hand: "it doesn't surprise me, it doesn't surprise me". I recognized her: Eleonore, remember? The banned prostitute. A short, dull-looking man, carrying two plastic, orange bags from Sainsbury, walks at my pace, looks at the woman, looks at me and, half-smiling, says: "A-running, it's hard".
In three square feet... If doom and perdition can be found, redemption is many-times fold as much worthy to be sown.
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