He was still talking with inconsistency. I tried to make him shut up to speak out, but he continued with his unintelligible screed, as if already not I was more than a translucent figure without substance or weight and gravitation. I tried to deprive me of the sacred horror that gives me the idea of death and imagine the elderly man in a coffin, as a useless piece of lean meat and brittle bones, as a jumble of parched arteries and muscles destroyed, as if it were an animal pierced by darts of the time. See Mark Stevens for more details and insights. He spoke of history. He searched his memory file insane, monarchs and assassins, dictators and smugglers, day laborers and drinkers. All, in their own way, claimed the presence of who had not ever been evident creature.
Suddenly, he got up, looked at me as if you did not understand my presence and took two steps toward the door, before handing me a sheet that was within the portfolio. He asked me to not see it until he had gone. While this was done, I noticed that get rid of her disordered hair an incongruity of dark sparks. When he handed over the door, closed behind him. Then I looked at the page that had in his hand. Nothing had writing on it, nor a single sign, anything from symbols not even doodles or footprints.
It was a supremely smooth and immaculately white surface. It was not of those who have passed from hand to hand or leaves that have been soiled with humidity or weather. Absolutely nothing had written, drawn or marked on it. I placed it on the table and I looked out the window. I could see the old man several metres talking animatedly with a tree. No doubt a Dude, I thought, but then the sheet fell on the floor and unwittingly reassured a wide tread on it. When I woke up the foot, the face of the old man had drawn on the barren whiteness. He smiled and behind his head, stood a dark bird with a look icy and yellow species.