Purposeless Insistence
He mixes the mud; his hands tremble; he’s afraid. He doesn’t
know what to do. The house is empty. Perhaps he can present
the face of fear or the hands of fear with his hands as prototypes.
However, these hands are covered and mixed in the mud. Only
a gigantic, red eye is focused on him — doesn’t let him see
anything else. He takes the knife. Pushes it into the mud. He
stops. The mud dries, with the knife pushed in its middle,
the mud dries around his fingers, and he can’t move them. Then,
is this his statue? The old uncared-for dog sniffs the clothes
of the dead woman, hunches under the table, and starts crying.
Manolis Aligizakis 