There were no others. The
history was the sum of the stories of female and male, homogeneous
and heterogeneous, inner and outer, near and far, small and large,
slow and fast, little and big, dwarf and giant, idiot and genius
species. There were no others.
There were others. Others
were the determinants of the history. They were everybody and nobody.
They were writing and reading, understanding and ignoring history.
They were the history. History was them.
Others of others were
manipulating life. They were writing the scenarios of the lives of
others. They were writing and building the history of decay and
extinction. They were the living representatives of death.
Others were history. They
were life. Life was them. They were writing the histories of their
times and spaces. Within the limits of their universes.
History was life. Life was
writing the history.
Met remembered the
greatest poets of the universe. He smiled with a wonderful look on
his face and in his eyes. He was light. People he had heard about and
he had known were lights. They were life. He sat down with respect.
He read the names of the suns of the history. Life was the lights of
the suns.
"Poetry is life,"
he whispered. There were signs of the infinity of hopes living in
existing lives, recorded in the words he had whispered.
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