And Bardo played. In the way he knew least badly: poetry. There are far more pages than usual from that time, scribbled by hand, which he read to Ophelia when she asked him to, often late at night. I carry that notebook with me everywhere now.

This evening I’ve bought some cheese and a nice bottle of French wine to thank my host. Ophelia still hasn’t appeared. Maybe she’s waiting for us to bump into each other in the street, by chance? I don’t feel very well, despite my efforts. There’s a kind of anxiety overwhelming me. Liis asks me to read her a couple of lines of my brother’s writing. Whenever I stop, she asks me to continue. Time stands still.

It would be amazing, Ophelia, to analyze the circle of our choices, in the course of our life story.

Thousands of yeses, thousands of noes, and the universal stagnation of shadows behind the elemental doors.

The mechanics of time, with teeth worn down the repetition of everything, the renewal of doubts to the tune of public transport, ambivalence on the corners of the tables.

Continue reading here (PdF): Miranda -Who Killed the Poet?