The Time

It spoke of rprobos, of impos, also of saints, discreet, kind and indifferent, ferocious and lunatic, of monarchs and assassins, dictators and dealers, day laborers and drinkers. All, to its way, they demanded the presence of That had not been never evident creature. Suddenly, one rose, it watched to me as if it did not include/understand my presence and took two passages towards the door, before giving a leaf to me that was within the portfolio. It asked not to see it to me until one had left. While this did, I could observe that an incongruity of dark sparks was come off its disorderly hair. When it transferred the door, I closed after him.

Later I watched the page that it had in the hand. There was nothing no written in her, not one sign, nothing of symbols not even pothooks or tracks. It was a white and supreme smooth surface immaculately. It was not of those leaves that have happened of hand in hand or which they have soiled with humidity or the time. Absolutely nothing had written, drawn or marked in her. I placed it on the table and I showed myself to the window.

I could see the old man to several meters animatedly talking with a tree. Without a doubt crazy person, I thought, but then, the leaf fell on the floor and without wanting it I put envelope she an ample footstep. When I raised the foot, the face of the old man had been drawn on the barren whiteness. It smiled and behind its head, a dark species of bird with a frozen and yellow glance rose.