the pebbles at the bottom of the river, smooth, unblemished, polished, and the water washes them, runs over them with that tiny rush that she herself knows, where did these stones, eternally washing themselves in the Guaso, come from, what sands formed them, there is no air to count them, there is no sun to show them, there is no voice to detail their exact molecules for me, pressed together, pressed together till asphyxiation to form hardness, but I do know of I, of me, of these rough boots that the Guaso licks, the soles stuck to the pebbles, the water at ankle height, and my hands on my knees as van Gogh placed them when I was born in one of my many births, through the graphite of his pencil, to cry, seated in a chair, eternally leaning towards his signature, Vincent; at what moment did I leap to this rock in the Guaso to be born, seated, in my sixty fifth year, draping a peach skin about myself to cover the movement of my blood, to cover my glazed veins, dressing myself with rebellious freedom in workers blue, the blue getting wet at the edges, at ankle height, the blue resting on a rock, the blue covering my sex which I sense dried out, the blue hugging my breast, my back, the contours of my arms, and now I am colours, and I continue disobeying, disobeying you, van Gogh, and I raise my head a little, my hands now placed on each side of the corners of my mouth, to leave the eyes free, so that you stay there, old man grieving, man of graphite, and in my peach skin, motionless, the eyes free to watch the universe pass by
