The Email Sent About Tabucchi's Isabel

There is certain kind of idiocy which

knows no bounds, the kind of which, blind, doesn't

recognize Slowacki written on a page when it sees it.

The kind of idiocy that, not willing

to be one in a faceless mass of wrong,

rushes forward like a long distance runner

in the very beginning of the contest, just

to be seen - and ashamed. Like a kamikaze

pilot that crashes beside his target ship,

sinking in defeat and meaningless death.

28.08.2017