Just a story of islands

 

https://www.amazon.co.uk/dp/B07JKFNCDG

Chapter 3

 

The entry was dark, but after closing the front door behind our shoulders, we noticed, on the left, an open door, which filtered a weak light. After we had gone through a poorly illuminated and narrow corridor, we turned into a staircase. There was not any sign of life all around. At length we found, still on the left, an open door and we leaned out to see.

" Come in, come in" said a voice from behind a disclosed glasses’ door.

And before we could do or say anything, a thin face appeared on the threshold and in a firmer and louder tone repeated:

"Come in, at last!".

He soon showed us two chairs in front of his desk and started watching us with questioning expression.
I also observed him with attention and curiosity.
He was the thinnest person I had ever seen in my life. You could rather say that he was made but skin and bones. He had prominent cheekbones and also the jaws, the temples and the front were very protruding.

If some incredibly brisk and extraordinarily green eyes had not filled his eyes sockets, I might have also believed that he could really be made of skull and crossbones.
But skulls and crossbones, usually, do not speak. Furthermore he wore some suits which let him to look like a normal man.

 "I am Mr Winningoes. What can I do for you?" –he said as soon as we had sat down.

 " We are looking for a job" - George immediately said after a brief pause.

" What kind of job are you looking for?"  said the man on his way. Despite of the appearances, his voice sounded like a perfect job’s agency employee.

 "Everything will be all right" I dared, in my difficult English, staring at George to ask confirmation of the agreement we had hastily reached, not to speak at all of Mr Joking.

" Ah!"  the man exclaimed "Let’s see, then."

With the thin finger he started pointing up the lines of some sheets leaned on a skin braid on his front. He mumbled, rather than leaked, without any sense and, from time to time, he fixed a careful look to one or the other of us and after, shaking his head, he started over reading.

He had finally arrived to the last sheet, and rather seemed that the finger already slipped from the sheet to the braid, and from this to the green glass that covered the plan of the desk, when the old man pronounced with vivacity: - “Here you are! Two intelligent young people, good health, bachelors and prepared to travel around, we are looking for easy and pleasant job. Good conditions. No references are required."

to be continued...

Just a story of islands

 

 

 

 https://www.amazon.co.uk/dp/B07JKFNCDG

Chapter 2

 

That Friday, the 9th of November 1979, right the day we were going to meet that strange Mr Winningoes, as we had soon to discover, I followed him on the wide tree-lined roads. On the sidewalks, the leaves, fallen during the night, had formed a thick and soft carpet, on which George seemed to walk with special pleasure.

It was a colorless day, one of those typical London winter days where the diurnal light maintains the same slim intensity, from mornings to evenings, and the night comes up suddenly unexpected, when the pale and smothered reverberation of the sun, behind a thick blanket of clouds, has concluded its almost invisible cycle.

It blew a fresh and light breeze. But the wind, from time to time, became impetuous, and by means of violent gusts seemed to push us, like for joking or as if it wanted to encourage us to go straight ahead. And courage was exactly what we really needed, as our search of a job was becoming a serious and weary problem.

“I don't recognize the London's gone times anymore” George had told me, not later than the former evening, coming out from one of the many jobs agencies we had uselessly visited.

I followed him on his march, absorbed in the noise that our own footsteps produced on the leaves. The rhombus of an auto dissuaded suddenly my attention.

”Where are we going to?” I asked him.

” We will try to go this way along” he answered turning slightly back his head. “This way through we will rejoin the Maida Vale. There are plenty of job’s agencies up there.”

George knew a lot better than I that area, as he was living since a longtime. He had taken that one-room flat where we were living together, with a girl, now got back to Italy, like he fleetingly told me, not without a shade darkening sadly his eyes and I did not dare to ask him more of it. We walked silently. Sometimes we crossed some hasty passing or perceived, almost more than hear it, as a fleeting apparition, a car or a motorbike whose noise was spaced out slowly, as absorbed and diluted in the immensity of the surrounding silence.

We walked around and after an indefinite time, that desert of dry leaves seemed to stop against an iron handrail.

I brusquely handed at it, gasping and excited for the march and for a strange emotion that had suddenly pervaded me. From my point of observation, tall brushes of trees hid the horizon and I could only see, slightly swaying in the void, a green poster with the write “Winpey “in red- block dark characters.

I felt a pleasant excitement throughout my body. A feeling that immediately was of lightness. A desire to let my body flow in the air, toward that poster, flying the sky.

-” Let’s go down these steps”.

The George’s voice dissuaded me from my thoughts. As we went down the stairway, the view, under of us, revealed its real contours. That poster, that seemed like suspended in the air, was the summit of the tall pylon of a crane that laid in the center of an immense housing estate.

I watched again toward that write and noticed that it was hacked against a loaded leady sky with no change of tonality. A dark and heavy vault until my eyes could see.

”Are we in the morning or in the evening, George?” I did seriously.

”What difference does it make?!” he answered almost in a mocking way “However there seem that some people are working over there. Let’s go and see.” He added turning to a serious tone back.

We reached the site fence. Through the interspaced tables that bounded we saw numerous working machines: diggers, shovels, concrete mixers, kneaders, all laying like dead animals, in the most total silence.

"Are you sure there are some people working here? I can't see anybody."

George gave a look through the tables too, a little bending on them.

"They might be stopping for one of the so many "tea-times" English people like to do. Let’s look for the entrance and then we will see."

To find the access of the yard, that occupied a wide place in the center of a crossroad, we walked along his perimeter. The entrance was exactly on the opposite side. We entered.

Between working machines and shovels, heaps of sand and piles of sacks of cement, bricks, lumbers, irons and utensils, we noticed a small cottage of red plate, that was almost in the centre of the building yard. We were approaching there when a small door was opened out of the shed.

"Hello boys!" A gentleman said sorting out " Can I help you?"

His voice was cordial and happy. It seemed he was talking to well known persons.

" Is there any need of some workers?" - George did him without preambles and also laughing. We stopped a little closer and so I had the opportunity to better observe him: he looked quite a lot peaky, making a net contrast with the strong black of the hair. He dressed with elegance a brown suit on a white shirt with a red and black cravat.

" I would not mind at all " the man replied in the former jovial tone -" but our firm assumes only through the agency. Now I will give you the address so you can go and see there. There are good hopes. Follow me in to the office, please" he spurred us, seeing we were so undecided.

Just a story of islands

 

https://www.amazon.co.uk/dp/1687004994

That London summer 1979 had exceptionally been long and mild (London whether, at middle August, it is usually already cold). Such a whether allowed me to make profitably the ice cream sale. We sold them to the passer-bys, leaned out in the street with a freezing machine “Carpigiani” that, in the evening, after the sale, we located inside a shop of souvenirs along the Oxford Street. Working together had contributed to strengthen our knowledge and we became so good friends.

Of George I appreciated the self-confidence that showed in the practical and small things of everyday’s needs, as for instance knowing how to cook rather than to be skilful in the use of English language. This assurance of his, nevertheless, was oddly conjugated with his strenuous internal search that seemed finalized to understand the deepest sense of our life on the earth. That after all was the main reason which had pushed me in to London town.

These things I had realized through the great discourses that, alternate to long silences, we had along that time.

George was rather a reserved man, who didn't love very much to speak of himself, at least not in direct and explicit manner. Neither he seemed very interested to pick up the alien confidences.

He apparently gave the impression to have something to hide or have run away from someone he needed to forget, in a city where also a celebrity would pass unnoticed. But after a short time, I had realized that his silences, his reservation, his misanthropy were together the fruit of a shyness and the result of a reflexive and deep character, projected towards a spiritual search that, absorbing big part of his energies, detached him from the material things of daily life, except those strictly necessary for living through.

The search of an ideal world, through dimensions and experiences untied from the normalcy and the usualness of everyday life, had been soon the point of contact and more important welding in our relationship. Furthermore, apart all this, I had found on him a disinterested support, without which my London adventure would have soon ended up. Then the summer, suddenly ended, and slowly but surely, also vanished the savings put aside in the ice cream season.

to be continued...

 

The Essence of Life

 

https://www.amazon.co.uk/dp/B07JKFNCDG

Chapter 1

George and I

 

I had known George, just in the summer of  1979, in a little snack bar, in the beginning of my London stay. A snack-cafe not so far from Piccadilly Circus, where they made a slightly drinkable coffee. I used to go there, because it was the only place where the coffee was served in the small, classical, Italian cups, and even if it was served with no cream, it was still better than that watered black soap that almost all barmen sell off for coffee in England.

The snack-bar premises were in a large rectangular room. On the right of the entry there was the counter with the coffee-machine, while both on the left and  the opposite wall, in front of   the entry-door,  there was a wood bench, lined in brown colored plastics and, straight above, lined in the identical way, a narrow shelf, plenty of sugar-bowls and ashtrays.

The left wall, for the whole length of the bench, beginning from the shelf and finishing to the originally white-painted ceiling, was made of a thick transparent glass that, giving brightness to the place, allowed the visitors to enjoy a wide outside sight where, just in front, was well visible the entrance of a theatre with an ample and luxurious atrium. It was there that George seemed to stare up his look, over the round glasses (like John Lennon’s, I had thought).

His olive complexion, the chestnut hair and the black moustaches didn't make him certainly look like a probable Queen‘s subject, but I questioned him, this not less, in English. Also because, after all we were in London. What other idiom was I supposed to speak?

He burst into laughter, hearing  my question. Not immediately, but after turning his head to look at me, with a funny expression on his face, while with my hands I repeated my request for fire, rubbing, at the same time, my right forefinger on the palm of the left hand.

After lighting his own cigarette, as I stood close and steady, much more interdict than angry, because of his crazy laughing, he told me in a strongly stressed, though smooth, Italian language:

 “Sorry for laughing, but Italian people do make notice of them, when they speak English. You come from Rome, don’t you?” -, he suddenly added, smiling with satisfaction to my sad, affirmative answer.

The place, beside the two of us and a girl sitting on the other side of the bench, was empty. The barkeeper, behind the counter, was preparing a great copy of sandwiches, with cheese and tomatoes, lettuce and meats and a few others with all four ingredients together, according to the best English taste.

 “And you, where do you come from?” - I asked him in some annoyed tone for that reference to the Italian’s accent and particularly to that of the Romans, whose noble descendants I am still proud to belong.

-” I am not Italian” - he answered to me with peaceful voice “but I have lived quite a lot of years in Italy. So I know your customs quite well, and also your accent” -, concluded laughing again tastefully.

This time his laughing, however, didn't upset me at all. Those few words had been enough to make my anger fade away; or maybe I was just only glad to talk to someone without squeezing my brain to translate my thoughts from Italian into English language.

To recognize nationalities through the English speaking accents, was only one of the so many eccentric aspects of George’s personality, as I had the opportunity to discover thereafter.
But what struck me mostly among them, determining the consolidate of our friendship, was his passion, shared by me, for the esoteric philosophies. Actually ‘till then, I had reputed them exclusive knowledge of the eastern cultures, while George, rightly in the period we met, was studying at one (whose study he had to introduce me, later on), that he granted to the Huichols, a direct descending people of the ancient pre-Colombian populations that in the present state, according to what at that time he told me, were still living in the north western mountains of Mexico.

...to be continued...

The Dreamer

 https://www.amazon.co.uk/dp/B0CQDFK2JW

Chapter 1

«I will soon be back, make yourselves at home, please» - said the man going out. We looked at each other, George and I. It had only been from the morning that we didn’t have a chance to stay alone, however I swear that it seemed to me as if it was an eternity.

«That’s a real story of madness! » he burst out taking a seat in one of the four wood armchairs that were around a circular table in the center of the small room–«This man must be crazy! Let's put him off as soon as is back and let's escape from here, until we are in time»–he added while I was taking a seat in front of him.

«Just a moment, George, maybe it will seem strange to you, but I don't feel afraid of this man! He inspires a sort of trust in me, despite his strangeness».

«But do you realize what you are talking about? Have you gone out of sense too? This man must have some extraordinary powers: hasn't he hypnotized us just slightly before? Have you also heard him talk of super-races and brain's experiments or have I dreamed of it?», George attacked me nervously.

«Be quiet, please, George» - I told him in a calm voice. –«First of all, I don't believe he has hypnotized us, just before. Secondly, if he is really so powerful as you say, what could be his reaction, when we try to immobilize him? Make a point on it: when we arrived here, we were both sleepy. Therefore if he wanted to use us as guinea-pigs, two punctures were enough for him to knock us down! On the other hand I have not seen yet neither cats resembling mice, nor men with a square brain! Who can be sure that the old man is not inventing everything? It would not surprise me if this story derived from the imagination of some fantastical writer. I want to go to the end of all these circumstances. Don’t you also want to know what kind of job's proposal Mr Winningoes is going to make for us?»

George gazed for a long time into my eyes, thoughtfully. Then, without answering, he relaxed on the back of the chair, releasing the muscles and breathing deeply.

He stood with half open eyes crossing at once the feet and the hands softly on the womb, with the right hand covering the palm of the left one. He seemed to me almost slept, while only the breath animated his body.

Won by all those unexpected and subsequent emotions, I also imitated him doing my best on sitting comfortably on the wood ancient chair.

to be continued...

Four men in search of the truth

 

https://www.amazon.co.uk/dp/B07H44DYF7

There were four men

searching for truth

 

They all knew

that sixteen hundred years before

Someone was asked

by a washing hands' man

to say what was the truth

One of them

is on the tower of Pisa

which is still bending

since then

'cause he refused

to declare the earth is flat

to the clergy men

to the rappers of truth

Several miles away

another one

is convicted

by other holders

of false truth

he has lost his wife

he's lost his goods

he's lost his freedom

and he's Lost Paradise

 

And Torquato

has been serving

since seven years through

in a madhouse

for his poetry was  sure

so full of truth

The fourth man lies

straight and tall

in the middle of a square

where his unfortunate harsh

took the place of the flowers

He seems to warn the passing-bys:

"Please, mind the truth!"

The Monologue of Mendeleev

The Monologue of Mendeleev

Introductory monologue to the theatrical action

"Magic of the Elements"

conceived, composed and interpreted by Ignazio Salvatore Basile

 

The lights are on slowly on the scene. The scientist Mendeleev is sitting at a desk and is immersed in the deepest reflections, puffing and muttering something, in an incomprehensible Russian Language. Initially he does not notice the lights and the audience in the hall. In the background you can hear the notes of a Borodin symphony (or of his work "Prince Igor") in the background.

At a certain point, noticing the audience, he will have a start and will stand up, approaching the proscenium. The notes of the music will fade slowly, slowly ...

 

Mendeleèv (muttering while moving the mosaic tiles in front of him)

 

Mo je tack,  niet! N’aviernotack…Niet  …..…(pausa) Da..da!!!!Kak Vaussnei!!!!!!!(little surprise break)

Oooh!!I beg your pardon! (the scientist realizes the presence of the public in the hall. He stands up and goes to the proscenium  holding some tiles in his hands)I did not realize your presence here …..’you Know?..... I was overthought…… .…...trying to remember a dream about some empty spaces in my periodic table…something like musical scales………or like a simphony…..( he still indulges, as in a trance, to reflect and dream for a long moment, then he will end up shaking himself definitively) Oh, I apologize once again for my persistent carelessness!

It’s time to  introduce myself now: my name is Dmitri Ivànovic  Mendelèev, I come from Russia and I am  a chemist……. (he will look around thoughtfully)

By the way! If  someone has ever told you that Chemistry is a boring subject he must have been somebody who has never understood what Chemistry is related with!

  That’s for sure: all the things of the known world, are related with it and chemistry is perfect!!  …..Despite of those empty spaces that I am looking for………How could I fill them?   

I must reasonably believe that they are more than one……. Actually  it does not change the core of the matter! Pay me your attention, please (

he turns to the blackboard and reads, almost spelling, with a long wand):

“The Periodic Law subordinates to it self his interior dynamics and it aims  to go in to the   philosophical principle wich controls the mysterious nature of the elements!”

It sounds quite brilliant, does n’t it? But, what does it   mean? (he will observe a short pause for reflection and after he’ll have a  sudden enthusiasm) Good Heavens!!! Why did n’t I reach it before? But now I surely got it!!!

It means that if my law says that one element exists, although nobody has never seen it, this element must exist! According to my figures and the predictions governed by my Periodic Table there  must be an element that  has an  atomic weight  72 and a density  5.5! 

But,  wich one, is it ? (he Sits Sighing  for  fatigue and sudden disappointment)  

I am too tired now! I am going to take a little rest!   I’ll see you later

 (Mendelèèv goes out; the demonstration of the magic of the elements begins.)

https://www.amazon.it/dp/B086ZQ9VLN

The story of Mr Winningoes - 12

As you certainly know all our mental energy springs by a simple chemical reaction that is continuously produced in our brain. Such reaction, that the physicians define with the name of “synapse”, is originated by the reaction between the liquid whose any  brain is imbued and the cells it copiously contains.

In practice this liquid, that has equal molecular structure in every man, works as a tracing detector of the cerebral process, whose action is, instead, what countersigns a man from another.

The intimate reasons for such different action of the cerebral processing, have seen divided for a long time the humanity.

Manhood has however been until now incapable to intend the true reason for the difference of the beings of its species.

A human being, from the scientific point of view, it is only a product of a casual connection of the basically chemical mixtures that are contained in the cells. And all its activity is coordinated by the cerebral cells.

To succeed on obtaining a distillate of those cells, meant therefore to dispose of a substance of inestimable value.

You can of course imagine, what such an emotion I felt when I injected those drops that were deposed on the fund of the test-tube, to a rat guinea-pig.

The result was amazing, greater and more meaningful than I had been able to foresee myself. The mouse, a normal mouse of averages age and greatness, after spending twelve hours asleep, wakened up again.

Apparently he seemed to be the same as before the injection, but actually he moved in a different manner however.

He had, in a few words, a different air. He slowly started walking and moving its tail upwards, in a way quite unusually for a mouse; furthermore he sniffed and smelled the air and the ground of the cage. And I was much more surprised when I saw him stretching its legs towards and backwards,  forming a tall hunch with his backbone,  then sitting down leaking his pawns and finally resting in leisure with a sleepy way. Its limbs still looked like those of a mouse, but they behaved as belonging to a cat! That was the exceptional result!

The animal seemed restless and took on turning around the cage with his feline behavior. He was surely looking for some food.

I gave him his usual mice food but after he had smelled it for a long time, he started over turning around visibly more nervous and hungrier. I opened a cat tin food and with my great surprise he devoured that meal in a flash.

He grew up constantly in the following days, assuming a double massive structure compared to the same aged of his own race, then his growth seemed to halt.

His epidermis had not suffered either big mutations;  nor  the bony structure, at least externally, showed to have acquired any peculiar characters, except for the moustaches and the legs, that seemed to have changed for a most congenial use to cat’s needing.

In the movements and in the external behavior he moved as a cat though having the semblances of a mouse.

A serious question had bothered me since the first days of the experiment: how would that animal relate with another mice? And how would other cats relate with him? In his more inner instinct had he become a cat or he had remained a mouse?

With much trepidation I moved him to captivity with other mice: they started to squeak very afraid; it was evident that those small rodents had immediately warned the hostile presence.

He had a good time pursuing them and grabbing them as cats make with mice, and at long, exhausted and satisfied, he rested quietly on a side of the big cage, while the little mice, remained farther all afraid and trembling.

He didn't show any interest to pursue them, more than joking  in that way, perhaps because he was not hungry or even because something inside prevented him from doing it.

The thing, after all, didn't interest me and I transferred him afterwards with a real cat, and also there the success arose to me: they behaved as two bosom and jovial friends.

At the beginning I thought to try his reproduction, but actually this would have been only an interesting and suggestive detour from my principal aim.

In order to reach it I had to gather all my efforts, and the results of that first experiments constituted the base of my following job.

First of all it was clear that the cerebral muscle, under particular conditions of temperature and environment, like those which took accidentally place that prophetic day in my laboratory, released a particular, liquid and dense substance, containing the fundamental geniuses, that I call primaries; those which are responsible of the most intimate and  proper characters of the race.

It was also evident that such substance appeared able to be moved into another brain,  creating there a new habitat in which to regenerate its cells and with them  repurchase its functions and its aboriginal characters.

I verified more times the exactness of these hypotheses, but only in a direction, that I define evolutionary. The experiment only succeed if the essence of a superior animal, in the steps of the evolutionary chain, was introduced in the brain of an inferior animal, while in the other way down, the phenomenon took place in a lesser and very attenuated tone,  deprived of significant consequence.

I baptized the liquid essence ‘nouchefalon ', and I prepared hence myself to develop in the foreseen direction my experiments.

What would it happen if I  transfused some ‘human nouchefalon ' in to the brain of another man?
12. to be continued...

The story of Mr Winningoes - 10

A beautiful day, in fact, while I was observing under the microscope a cat’s brain, ulterior, fortunate guinea-pig, subtracted to the deprivations of its life for the glory of the Science, an amazing account happened to me.

I had set the small feline’s organ in a cylindrical open neck test-tube and I was continuously thinking about it, looking as usual for a sprout of understanding on its complex and mysterious composition. At a certain point, needing something to eat, I went upstairs. I left unwillingly open the microscope’s focus. I was going to have a cup of tea, with my daily survival meal, when I heard some beats on the door. The circumstance was quite unusual. Nobody ever came to find me and

Soledad, the Mexican housemaid who was in charge for homework, as an invisible angel, entered in the house using her own key.

As I opened the door a young man introduced himself as an emissary of the English legal study “Heirs and Heirs” .

He was coming to inform me that my father had died and I had been named his only heir. He also told me that he had brought with him some letters of attorney to allow his fellows to look after the most urgent matters of administration.

I signed those proxies without not even reading them. On the financial plan I would have been now stronger than ever.

10. to be continued...

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The story of Mr Winningoes - 7

- “Have a drink, please. It is cognac from Charente, one of the few things that I appreciate of French people.”

This way saying he poured some of that liquid in a short, carved wine glass, explaining  that a cognac, to be really good, has to leave, if slightly rotated, a thin layer of color inside the glass.

As soon as I had drunk, I immediately felt a comforting warmth. On the warm’s alcohol wave I thought that that man surely knew so much indeed about life. His theories, yet quiet abstruse to me, showed however a sort of suggestive charm.

- “You certainly know how has the second world war concluded” - said the man, who went on talking about the last phases of the war, mixing them with some personal circumstances and original points of view, totally different from official historical interpretation .

- “Excuse me , my friends, for detouring from the main path” - he returned to say taking back the main stream of his narration. -“After all, such problems, didn't interest to me so much at the time, neither they interest to me today. I had to follow my life, and rather, the use of the atomic bombs in Japan made me understand, even more, the urgency of stopping mankind’s foolishness, under the risk of destroying the world and all its living forms. When I was dismissed, appointed as a real hero, I decided to go to pay a visit to my father. I still felt some grudge towards him and perhaps, I thought, I would  fling to him my medals,  which “his” king had given to me. But the memoirs of my happy infancy wound me in a veil of emotion and when I saw my father, old and tired, convicted on a wheels chair, I understood that was time to pass over and look at future.

7. to be continued...

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The story of Mr Winningoes - 3

I travelled at first through the United States and Canada, then I went to Australia and New Zealand. After I visited Europe, without never finding the courage to return to my country. Tired of the European Countries, among which I mostly liked Italy, I departed to India and finally, always curious of new lands, I went to Africa.

Neither women, neither alcohol, nor drugs not even the vices which I was devoted in those years succeeded in cancelling my bitter memoirs, until one day, while I was sojourning in Kenya, I fell ill, prey of strong fevers. Not a lot, then I gave, to live or die, but the Fate, had evidently planned  that I survived, so that the programs could be realized, whose I will have the honor and the pleasure to communicate to you. Revealed therefore from the illness, I returned to America aiming however to south, that I had not visited yet.

Going up again homeward, I stayed for a long time in Mexico, that not little fascinated me. By then,  I had satisfied my world's curiosity, so I preferred to  take over again my studies, more assidously  than before. I was akin of all: medicine, biology, physics, mathematics, chemistry, hidden sciences, illusionism, magic arts, engineering, electronics, astrology, philosophy, astronomy, sociology, anthropology, theology, ethnology, history, juridical, economic and political sciences and every other thing attracted my mind curious of reaching new knowledge.

During the numerous years of my following study, it happened on me a gradual mutation that flowed, after another  short lapse of  time, in a great, bright revelation. I had realized, deepening on studies that any single subject lost, little by little, until vanishing, its own contours and that all acquired information met in a bubbly melting pot, to form just one, immense nucleus of knowledge.

Yes, dear friends: our knowledge is an original, total unity. The single disciplines of human knowledge are but the infinitesimally small fragments that the mankind looks hopelessly for recomposing in to the aboriginal unity.

Two were the necessary consequent corollaries to this thrilling discovery. The first one is that the brain of both animal and human beings constitutes, though at a different evolutionary stadium, a microscopic part of the primordial totality. The second is that human thought search, yet in a blind and messy manner, to recompose, at a mental level, the great, primitive explosion, the Big-Bang, through a long and fatiguing marching back, up to the innumerable light years that separate it, from an equal, yet opposite, roaring and powerful implosion. And if you consider that our mind speculates in the space-time as fast as speed-light, this kind of final Big-Imbang will appear less far than any hasty forecast.

3. to be continued...
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