The dirty trick of forgetting only the bad but remembering the good doesn't work; memory claims its rightful place, meaning all or nothing, so let someone remain to remember, to remember even the fine print.
There are quite a few things that, alas, if the mind buries them too, it's not about flashy snapshots and crumpled memories, it's about intangible treasures. Fortunately, Michalis Tsioulis' brain had locked and secured them.
I'm not obliged to not daydream, he said, nor necessarily to be optimistic and happy, since everything is shallower, neither the depths of existence, nor my son, flesh of my flesh, nor where your beauty has set.
I tried, he continued, to be content with my modest share of daily life, to resemble the majority of the more normal ones, to even become a bit of a slacker, but reality did not tell me much; I didn’t know how to move comfortably in it.
The night on its throne, with the breeze touring the entire basin, throughout the Saronic Gulf and the stars high above sparkling chaotically, doing as they pleased.
Fortunate luck, Tsioulis had seen the moon in fifty, maybe even more, variations. Solid gold. Silver. White, gigantic and horizontal like a hammock. A sated baby dozing in the embrace of a reddish cloud. Proud and stainless, controlling the surge of the night.
Tonight, bluish-gray-yellow like your eyes, silly engineer, according to the Thessaloniki nurse, once upon a time.
