One day, a day of good weather, the great sun, as golden as a pear, as ripe as a grapefruit, as heavy with light as a young mother with child, noticed a saint swimming in the shallows by the shore of eternity, enamoured with her light and blessing her radiance, form and abundance. In an instant, she struck him blind. The swimmer lamented, crying out: My star, star that I love most, star who outshines all stars, you will not shine for me. Without you, I am drowned.
In the city of rain and somnolence, I kept running into phantoms of myself, watching motorists go blind as the signals turned amber, and I sank into tumultuous dreams of crusaders, languid dreams of flying machines, and idyllic visions of magic elephants wandering the dusty roads of earth that run on forever.
It was in the other land on another planet. A land washed by green oceans, with rusted mountains of snowy peaks, ash-gray fields of volcanic stones and great mesas of red sand. A traveler wandered in the copper wastes until he came upon a blind man with cream-thick cataracts. The man had a striped blanket covered with ornate instruments of colored blown glass. What is wrong with your eyes? the traveler asked. They are mine, the glassblower replied.
In a colorless dream of nocturnal blue flowers, the sleeper asked the corpse which one of them was more blind or awake, for they had lost their candles and exchanged shadows because of the infinite calculus of stars they had forgotten to number together.