“His story was tragic.
Yet he was too shallow to live his own tragedy, and too weak to escape it.
It occurred to me that he has woven a web of lies in which he lived like a curious spider lacking his own body.
Night and day crawling, spastic legs weaving lies, suffocating anybody who dared to approach him. Empty, in the middle of his own cobweb, contorting his legs, existing somewhere between heaven and earth in a demotic world not created by God, but by a relapsed and dark demiurge.
Angelo, are you still listening to me?”
“Who dares not, Clara?”
excerpt from the manuscript Glass Lovers.
image: conrado; Shutterstock; [link]