About death, we know nothing at all.

You talk a lot about death.

You write it, you tell it, as if it were your best friend. You rant about her obscure beauty to whoever you meet, not caring what they'll think of you. You don't like light, easy conversations because what really interests you is the ephemerality of the human nature, the sinister beauty that there is in the eternal night but also in the moon setting and, in turn, dying a little.

All you want is to be able to make it justice, to tell about it with the right words; but like an aspiring poet that knows nothing about life, how can you talk rightfully of something to you so unknown?

Because the searching it in every corner, the praising it, is almost a sacrilege, a blasphemy which ruins that aura of religious immortality that there is the most universal thing of all.

And you, with your tinkling jewelry and your cigarettes, that you smoked in nights too brief to taste like eternity, become prophet of it, but about death you know nothing at all.