the mother was closing the book of dutyngoing away proud without seeingnin those blue eyes the soul of her childnfull of disappointment secretly kept in silencennall day he was sweating with obediencenvery smart but some expressions on his facenwould prove hypocritical thoughtsnin the shadows of his roomnn7-year-old he was planning stories on lifenfrom the great desert where freedom gleamsnto the loving meadow with healthy perfumesnas he was only enjoying the darkest thingsnnin his naked and moist room with closed windowsnhe was reading his novel full of heavy skiesnand drowned forests flowers of fleshnvertigo crumbles with pity