The enemy is moving. What identifies you is not the enemy but time. Eternity, thus, is not your particular way to crush the enemy but the mark that the killer language leaves on you. Between eternity and survival, imagination speaks out with that voice which swallows everything and leaves us alone, the ridiculous struggle against everything, the memory of that day when we were non-violent in order to define ourselves against what we believed loved us. Between eternity and survival, thankfulness.

The serious thing it's not that time killed God. The serious thing is that he did so on your behalf as on mine as well, whether we smile or not. The words that time throw to us like sharp knives are not meant to make you smile but to create. You don't have to kill the father but just the artist which means to stop listening to the sound of the knives tearing the air apart.

It comes to me that forgiveness can only be a posture that we look though for moving the meanings. The artist's sense is the usefulness, the enemy's, is to shape your hands into a pray form. That is when we return to life only because the enemy tells us. We come back to life because, although the good and noble feelings move us, we still suspect that only life can threaten time. We return to life because, despite we rather be observed by death in order to be confident enought to be and say, life is the only monstrosity that the imagination can't regret.

In this life of ours, words detach from lizards to lie and they are meant to look from the inert wings of butterflies. In this life of ours, words struggle to survive, they need the sun to grow and they run for life. Far from this sun of ours, you will need your own fears to shine more than ever and to be the force enough to warp the enemy without having to know whether we won or we lost.

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