There were four white candles lighting her white weeps. She was heading toward death in the last room.
She was all white. Her clothes were pregnant with mild rigidity, vaporous undulations and angles; and covered in white in a white shroud. Hanging from the peak pointing to the sky and breathing the Void: The sacred veil, running down the face’s plateau to jump in sparkling white waves that would cover the slopes of her senses and the lower scope of her hair, extending in the valley of emotion–her white chest. By now, the climax of life’s excitement is the white calm expression on her face: death.
Death was all white.
A white piece of ice was cooling off the coldness–which was also white–right under Death.
The ice… The Ice… Ice! Life and death: that is my white obsession. Ice: wearing out its own life, drop by drop and tear by tear, rolling down its smooth skin rhythmically. I went back to what I used to be: water, a vulgar plagiarism of both life and death.
What a magnificent death the death of ice!
It was a strange event: strange but true. I was ice and I was dying in every tear being shed and, in spite of everything, I did not stop being myself. I, who was dying at the peak of my creativity…. I…I…. I, to the last drop. I…creating; creating life with all my strength. I, producing coldness to arrive at that which is cold: death; and returning, in the process…returning to my own self: nothing.
I love death: the white death of ice which uses all her senses to create in that very moment when she intersects with life. At the end, that is to die. The rest is to have never lived.