That black force of the flesh, when it rots in its denial of life; nothing that feeds. Feed the pain. Feed these impossible eyelids, my blindness, two holes for pain. Life escapes us; it escapes us: hunger, energy, vital force. The legs are the wings of quail that, dreaming of great flights, they believe Pegasus with their small head is filled (and almost bursts) with all those myths that people invented with their bad heads.