On that rock; the eternal one; the white one; the cool one in the mornings; boiling hot around two o’clock in the afternoon – the sun was burning it at that time – there, at two o’clock in the afternoon, the mountain gave the sun a little space to caress us.

That rock could fit us both. Flat on our backs.

It was so slick by the winter rains, that it had a bunk like a fixed pillow on its side; we fought about whose neck would grab it. How many visitors before us must have gone through the same for its sake?, I thought.

It was a little later than the sun’s ride, and our heads were resting in a shadow. The sunbeams were up to our knees. You were stroking my chest. I was so obsessed with its whiteness, and I ran thus with my eyes back and forth, looking at its different shades in each of its friezes; in my imagination it was as if I were wrapped in sails and saline mizzenmast – like an other Ulysses being afraid of the singing.

It’s inevitable. These are the tricks my fantasy needs.

You scolded me; that I would not hear thee, while thou didst tell me the secrets of thy clever soul. And how to convince you that I am competent with my imagination, both the Sirens to escape and to embrace all the confessions you give me – to get to know you, word by word.

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